


Corvus, roosting

by patchworkgirl



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:17:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patchworkgirl/pseuds/patchworkgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes following Zevran as he falls in with the crazy people following the dictates of a surprisingly alluring mage. A Blight isn't enough to quash the impulses of a determined rake, or make a camp full of dysfunctional misfits get along easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He followed me home

While sore in many places, and with a very bruised ego (a man could set out to die and still wish to acquit himself well in the process), Zevran was surprisingly comfortable. The Wardens' camp was oddly homey for a place that concealed fugitives from two or three sorts of wars at least, but these people had already demonstrated that they were full of surprises. In most cases, that they existed at all, which must be his consolation for particularly abject failure. He had been sent after Grey Wardens, not Grey Wardens, their dog, their Qunari, and the all-girl orchestra. All three women eyed him with obvious distrust and contempt, though each in her own, charming way, and the giant ignored him so completely he had to admire the skill. His targets were in conference.

 

The human was quite what he'd expect from what he knew of Wardens. Large, effective, not especially bright. There was likely no great harm in him, aside from a swollen shoulder for the poor assassin who happened to not quite avoid the shield. Ouch.

 

The elf... Well, this Alim had been the one to spare his life, hold his oath. Of course he should regard that one with additional interest. It only felt so strange because he hadn't been able to be interested in anything at all for a long time, not really.

 

He'd been described as a boy, though he was a bit past that. It wasn't uncommon for humans to mistake elves for younger (and quite a bit more delicate) than they were. No surprise there. He was a handsome little creature, fine-boned and bright eyed. The frumpy mage robes merely served to emphasize what was arguably a unique prettiness, and that had always been enough to draw the eye of Zevran Arainai.

 

But Maker, there were sweet faces enough in the world, and unlikely leaders, too. There was no real call for this little bump in the road to a well-deserved death to strike a spark in him, no matter how small. He had no business caring about things.

 

“Bandage change.”

 

He jumped. Maybe he'd be ashamed of it later, but he was still wounded, and if his mind had wandered enough to miss the breakup of the Wardens' council, so be it. He looked up a little blearily at Alim. “So many lovely women about, and yet here is my angel of mercy?”

 

“I'm the herbalist,” he said with a little shrug, kneeling beside Zevran and unrolling a neat little kit. “Wynne says you're doing fine. I don't think she wants to be bothered, and Creation isn't my school of magic. Have to make do with elfroot.” He babbled a bit, but it was a pleasant voice. Stripped of any real personality by education, perhaps, but tuneful. “Now, if you need something set on fire...”

 

“Not now, but I shall remember this skill of yours.” It turned out he could force away memory and guilt long enough to enjoy being tended to by a rather soft pair of hands. Fire Mages (was there such a thing?) must not build up many callouses. He sat stiffly despite himself, though, still sore, and reached for an aching spot on his head to test the bump.

 

The Warden pushed his hand away casually. “You're as bad as Alistair. Sit still.” He did his work well and thoroughly. It was a pity he couldn't take solace in the attention, because Zevran was fairly sure he'd never warranted quite this sort of tending. Crow-friendly healers were a sour lot and field medicine, in his experience, was a hasty, rough thing.

 

Looking for something to take his mind off it, his eyes fell on the intricately patterned sleeves Alim wore. A good way to get a headache. “I've always wondered. Why is it even lovely mages dress like grandmothers?” he asked, and then wondered just how hard he'd hit his head.

 

“To annoy templars,” came the immediate reply. “It's why we do everything. Any small wounds I've missed?”

 

What an opening. He couldn't help it. Whatever his plans, whatever he deserved, he wasn't made for melancholy. He was made to flirt shamelessly with pretty little things that fell in his path. What the Maker had wrought he would not resist. He was long damned anyway. “Perhaps there might be. Help me out of my armor to look?”

 

“Why, bent buckle? It happened to Leliana the other day.” Zevran assumed for a moment he was being teased back, but if he was, Alim formerly-of-the-Circle-Tower was the best actor he'd ever seen. Earnest helpfulness seemed to be the whole of his motivation. How did he even answer that kind of innocence?

 

With more flirting, of course. “In that case, the lovely sister has thus far been luckier than I.” Oh. That was obtuse. Head injury. “To have such a handsome squire.”

 

Alim snorted at him. He was used to being rebuffed. No one was perfect, even Zevran. But he couldn't remember an overture being treated as a fairly weak joke. “No more injuries, then. Well, until supper. Alistair's cooking. But there's a tent rigged for you.” He rolled up his kit, then brushed off his knees as he stood. Fastidious, apparently. “I expect you'll sleep pretty soundly.”

 

Oh, one more try. “I'll have all the inspiration I need to dream to.”

 

And he was laughed at again. “There are three mages in your immediate vicinity. What do you think the Fade's going to be like around here?” He wandered over to bother the dark haired woman about something Zevran couldn't hear.

 

He stayed put after that. Several parts hurt too much for wandering about to be an attractive prospect, and no one seemed interested in chatting with the stray assassin. He tried to settle in and rest, wrinkling his nose at the prospect of Fereldan food, but his eyes kept flickering to Alim.

 

Most of the mage's evening was spent with Wynne, but after dinner he wandered a ways beyond the tents to frolic with the war dog like it was a puppy. It clearly outweighed him, dragging him around effortlessly as they tugged a broken arrow shaft back and forth. It was so sweet it made Zevran's teeth hurt. If Loghain was really afraid of this naïve little brat he was simply paranoid. Perhaps the others were a danger, but the Warden seemed to be a very lucky elf with a magical stick.

 

A very lucky elf indeed, to be any kind of naïve, come to think. How had he possibly managed that? There were no coddled childhoods in the alienage. A certain wariness followed even the relatively fortunate. One never knew what doom was coming, but it was some doom or other, sometime, and being ready probably wouldn't help much. Maybe it was that he was a mage. They might be reviled by the populace a bit, but they presumably had enough to eat and warm beds, and perhaps they were strange enough not to mind one child in their midst being smaller and pointier than the others.

 

An innocent elf. That must be what he found so interesting.

 

But turning over the thought as he lay in his tent (these people treated their captured enemy remarkably well, though he had the impression the giant would cut him in half if he tried to steal away), he realized that couldn't quite be it. No one who blasted their way through massed assassins or who'd accomplished any of what the Warden was said to have was _innocent._ He wasn't sure what to call that absence of weary, resigned terror. He was fairly sure he liked it.

 

He woke up stiff and sore enough to push away disquieting dreams with more mundane discomfort and crawled into the pale Fereldan dawn, feeling deliciously sorry for himself. At first he thought he was alone, but the breeze carried him a hushed conversation. Curious, and trying not to look too suspicious in case someone emerged, he edged closer.

 

“But the trouble is they're traditional for a reason. Nobody embroiders anything really _powerful_ on a sash, but the patterns do shore up the minor enchantments that help navigate the Fade or focus a spell.” Alim. This, at least, sounded like what a Grey Warden should be up to, magical equipment for fighting the darkspawn. Maybe he wasn't quite the featherhead he'd seen.

 

He walked into camp, carrying a bundle of firewood in company with the very dangerous redhead. She nodded seriously. “But there's no reason the colors have to be so drab, is there? And so  _shapeless_ ! What is stopping you from inscribing your spells on something elegant? For you, I think, oxblood riding boots.”

 

“I've never been on a horse.”

 

“But that doesn't matter. The heels will give you a little more height and keep you from slouching. Red tones will be nice with your skin, and with a bit more shape, maybe you'll stop hiding those calves.”

 

Ah. Featherhead. Zevran didn't bother trying to resist. She was proposing putting him in leather, after all. “Oxblood? No, ebony. In such a position as our friend's, boots must say not only 'look at me' but 'watch your step as well as mine,' no?”

 

She regarded him in imperious silence for a moment and said, acidly, “You have no subtlety.”

 

“Perhaps you have no vision.”

 

Before the glaring contest could escalate to something more, or Zevran could order his sleepy morning thoughts to proposition the good sister, Alim dropped his armload of wood and shrugged. “Let me know when you've decided. I'm going to wake Morrigan. We'll see if I live to wear any shoes at all.” 

 

The camp was waking up around them, and Zevran found himself merely exchanging a slightly miffed glance with Leliana before she went off to start the fire and breakfast. Another time, perhaps. He sat sulkily beside his tent for some time, watching the strangers who held his fate in their hands rouse and eat bland porridge. 

 

Then Alim was beside him again with a bowl of the stuff and his bandages. “Eat. I'm going to look at that shoulder.” Zevran hadn't gotten as far as armor yet this morning, so he only had to tug away a borrowed blanket to cluck at the ugly bruise and swelling. “Not good. Alistair hits hard.”

 

Zevran wasn't used to having trouble getting a word in edgewise. Interesting challenge. “That does appear to be his skill set. A useful companion you have.”

 

“He also makes sarcastic remarks. You two may need to duel to settle who holds that position. Tell me if this hurts.” He gently tested the swollen shoulder. 

 

Zevran winced. “Only in the way that pain usually does.”

 

“Hold on.” He picked up one of the knobbly stones that seemed to proliferate all around Fereldan, especially where one might want to put a bedroll, and whispered something unintelligible. The rock suddenly shimmered with a rime of ice, and he hurriedly wrapped it in a scarf and handed it over. “There, hold it in place until we leave. We'll try a hot compress tonight, but for now the goal is to keep the swelling down while we move.”

 

Surreal, but delightful. “And where do we move to?”

 

Alim gave him an appraising look. Zevran expected a refusal to share information. He was an unknown quantity, and might carry their secrets back to all manner of nefarious characters. His expectations were not amiss. “Uphill all the way, unfortunately. I made you numbing tea for the trek.”

 

“And yet you do not practice magical healing? You have lovely hands for the work.”

 

“I'll learn someday, I suppose. Honestly, I'm barely past apprentice.” Alim shrugged, still seemingly immune to flirting. “Bodies heal themselves, and I understand how that works, more or less. My mother taught me simples when I was small. Making things burst into flame, leeching the raw stuff of magic from the bodies of the fallen, that's stranger.”

 

Zevran nodded, belatedly obeyed. The stone did help the ache, radiating unnatural cold. He'd never been especially skittish around magic. “You are a little terrifying.” 

 

“Thank you.” 

 

As he hadn't quite been told where they were going, he reached for a new topic. “So what about you was worth the exorbitant sum my employer paid to have you and your friend eliminated? I know several rumors and the official story, but I'm curious.”

 

“He wants to be the king, and thinks we intend to stop him. Which we do, a bit, Alistair more than me, but truthfully, he's not nearly as important as he thinks he is.” He tried to hand Zevran a small waterskin, but he didn't quite have a hand free. Alim's solution was to hook it in his belt. He was very casual about such contact. “Take a swallow from that any time the pain gets in your way. Mostly willowbark and valerian with a touch of elfroot. Loghain is very sure there isn't a blight, because, I think, it would be very convenient for him if there weren't, you see. He had the old king offed and most of the Fereldan Wardens because he's a thorough man, I take it.”

 

“And you were so rude as to escape?”

 

“I'm awful that way. In any case, I don't care which clueless human is on the throne, and I didn't know any of the other Wardens well enough to be really motivated to revenge myself on him, but it gets Alistair up in the morning. Try the tea. I'll sneak you honeycomb if it's too intolerable.”

 

Zevran obediently took a swig. Bitter, but it didn't even rank in the day's unpleasantnesses. “I have had far, far worse. You don't sound so very taken with the Grey Wardens.”

 

“I've only room in my heart for one lying, clutching, coercive social club that murders you if you try to leave, and the Circle got me first. I'm sure you understand, Sir Crow.” He shrugged. “They can all go hang for all I care, but there are Darkspawn all over, bothering my dog and preventing old ladies from crossing the street, so I'll get rid of them. And this irritating human lord who thinks he can get in my way.”

 

Zevran took a moment to digest all this and then nodded with mock solemnity. “I'm already sworn, I realize, but you, I really could follow into very dire straits indeed.”

 

“For starters, how about following me to your feet? We have a long way to go.” 

 

Since he offered an arm, Zevran took it. “Uphill?”

 

“Decidedly uphill. You like mountains, don't you?”

 

“Not the slightest bit. Is there something in the mountains that will help you grind darkspawn and usurper kings under your not yet properly shod bootheel?”

 

“Yes. Sort of. Obliquely. I have no idea what I'm doing. Eat your breakfast.”

 


	2. Can I keep him?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The urn of sacred what now?

Alim might have the sense to keep their destination quiet, but Zevran was a good listener, and he soon gleaned the gist of it, cinching his suspicion that these people were crazy. The Urn of Sacred Ashes was a children's tale, a narrative shortcut when you'd beaten your hero into too tight a corner. He was as religious as anybody short of Leliana, perhaps, but he did not expect miracles tucked away undiscovered in slightly inconvenient villages. From what he could see, Wynne, Morrigan, and Sten were all more or less incredulous as well, but Alistair was enthusiastic for reasons likely his own and Leliana's impulses made her the perfect mark for such foolishness.

 

There really was a comfort in having a leader to follow, though, even a slightly mad leader who let a chantry sister size him up for custom boots and seemed to consider darkspawn a minor inconvenience. His worries that Alim's attentions were only medical were allayed soon; his wounds were mere trifles after a few days' travel, but he and the Warden went on chatting, on the road and in camp. The young mage was mad for stories and not at all squeamish, reacting no more strongly to tales of sex and death than Zevran's attempts to tease him into a blush, regarding which he continued resolutely resistant. It wasn't long before he was out of tales he was willing to tell.

 

“Enough of Antiva. I would hear something of you,” he finally said, one night when they were very close to the town that (almost) certainly did not contain the mortal remains of the Maker's chosen.

 

“I don't think you understand how boring I am. Apprentices don't really leave the tower. Unless you'd like to hear about books I've read, there's really nothing between being taken to the Circle and the disaster on my way out.”

 

He could tell that this disaster was a sore spot. Alim hadn't prodded too closely at any of his, so he'd return the favor for now. “Bah, hundreds of brilliant minds, many belonging to the young and gorgeous and all locked in with all the magic sanctioned in Fereldan? There must be intrigues. I told you about assassinating a prince. You must have something to offer in return.”

 

“Nirella once became convinced she'd learned an ancient and undetectable spell of invisibility and led a expedition to raid the kitchens. But it was a trick most of our mentors had tried themselves once and failed, and we were sent to bed with no supper.” He shrugged. “I'm just not the artist you are. What can I say?”

 

Zevran shot him a decidedly unimpressed look. For the space of his so-called story, all Alim's chipper enthusiasm had vanished and he'd spoken fast and flat. It was very odd, from what little he understood of the Warden. “I don't believe you tried at all, but so be it. Fine. Tell me something from before the tower, then. Where did they find you?” He'd been turning over a theory. “Any exotic origins? Are you Dalish?”

 

Alim looked mildly confused. “No, Alienage, same as anybody.” Well, there went that explanation for his strange fearlessness, not that it had been without holes. “Seven year olds aren't interesting, either.”

 

“I was very interesting when I was seven.” He had no real right to be annoyed that Alim was holding out on him. He wasn't sharing anything important, either. “Come, one adventure, one detail, even.”

 

“I'm... ordinary. I don't know what to tell you.” He shrugged.

 

“Earlier today I saw you vanish away an arrow wound by drawing the lingering energy out of a darkspawn corpse by pointing at it with a magic stick.”

 

“Well, that isn't hard. You could do it too, if you were a mage.”

 

“I think I'll just let you mull over how ridiculous that statement was.”

 

“The truth of it is I was a star pupil, and that doesn't leave room for much else. The other apprentices were as tolerable as you'd probably guess, and I had some friends, but I wasn't much of a one for intrigues, and until the end, I didn't question things that I should have.” Alim sighed, and Zevran thought this might be the first moment of vulnerability he'd caught in his Warden.

 

Without quite meaning to, he edged a little closer. This might be it. Maker willing, let him have a few hours to forget the world in the company of soft scholar's hands. “Even a star pupil needs proper rest, no? Shall I help you unwind from your academic toils?”

 

“Please, I have to beg Wynne to give me any lessons at all while we're traveling. And good as she is, she's not a library and a cadre of senior enchanters. Any more rest and my mind will atrophy entirely. I'll turn into a sloth abomination.”

 

“You are a very silly mage and extremely lucky that I have a particular fondness for dark eyes and cheekbones a man would go to war for.”

 

“That would be a strange war even for Antiva.”

 

Sometimes he could swear the brat was doing it on purpose.

 

Zevran had to admit Alim could find a miracle if he looked for one, though, and that was one of the stranger thoughts he'd ever had a chance to entertain. The first night after Haven, there was too much buzz for him to work his way in, Leliana in raptures and Alistair delighted, the others more interested than perhaps they'd like to concede, not a moment's peace, and Alim fell asleep on his dog by the fire before they all left him alone.

 

He had to wait for the next night to ask the obvious question. “You're in an odd mood for a man who's one step closer to crushing king and darkspawn underfoot and just found the holiest relic in the world.”

 

“Aren't I always, though?” He didn't look up from the fire. It was his night to cook. “Will you please stop propositioning Leliana, by the way? She doesn't like it.”

 

“So you are aware of what sex is? I was beginning to wonder.”

 

“I read. But really. Don't annoy her or I think she'll stab you. Taste this, would you?”

 

“Be still my beating heart, a Fereldan who cares what he's cooking?” Zevran bent down obediently to accept the spoonful of rabbit stew. He managed not to make a face. Alim might care enough to try, but not enough to actually do very well. “I can see why the sister might be feeling her oats. You, not so much, and once again, I wonder why.”

 

“Strange day, is all.” Said a man who, Zevran had on good authority, had once wandered through the Fade plucking friends free of their nightmares. “Before this place I don't think I really thought there was an Andraste, or at least not that she was anything other than a good general who knew how to rile up a crowd.”

 

That was a surprise. The Circle of Mages, he'd always understood, was pretty tightly controlled by the Chantry. Casual heresy would be a hard thing to cultivate. He was even a little disturbed, though as soon as he realized that he pushed it away. Someone else's religious feelings were none of his concerns. “And now you are convinced?”

 

“No, not really. The ashes are magical, I can tell, but so is this.” He tapped an ugly little ring on his finger. “And I bought it from a sleazy dwarf. If there were a Maker, I'd honestly expect something other than plain magic, but how would I recognize that?” He poked almost sulkily at the kettle. “This is as ready as it's going to be. Dinner!”

 

Zevran followed him quickly once everyone was served, edging out Wynne and Alistair's attempts. He was happy enough with the others not seeming to much enjoy his company. It made monopolizing the pretty mage easier. “So what is it you do believe? If you don't mind.”

 

“Not really,” he said around mechanical mouthfuls. “And, well, nothing. Not in any of the stories they tell us, anyway. That whatever made the world abandoned it to its own devices makes sense, but that I'm supposed to want the thing that left us to make this mess to come back? It sounds like a damned unappealing entity to worship.”

 

A thought he'd had himself, but it didn't weigh on him at all like it seemed to Alim. “More unappealing than dragons?”

 

Muttering around a mouthful, it was almost impossible for even Zevran's sharp ears to catch Alim's odd reply. “Dragon, dragon, how do you do. I come from the king to murder you.”

 

“You'll have to explain that one.”

 

“Oh, it's from a story my mother would tell me. Who knows where she had it from. Some old folktale*. It involved a dragon terrorizing a countryside, a sequence of three sons, only the last of whom was virtuous enough to prevail. I always liked the poem, best. It kept popping into my head all the time we were there.”

 

Zevran found he liked it, too, which surprised him. He'd never had a chance to be pleased by children's tales before. Before he could ask the little bookworm what other sorts of poetry he liked (an opening was an opening, though it was beginning to feel a bit like hurling himself at a brick wall), the dog trundled up to lick Alim's bowl and he rose to join the creature for a frolic.

 

To his polite goodbye, Zevran added, “What about Alistair? May I proposition Alistair?”

 

“He probably won't stab you, so if it has to be somebody...”

 

“Wynne?” Maybe he was trying to get a rise.

 

But he didn't seem bothered, apparently feeling his mentor could take care of herself. “She'll turn you into a newt.”

 

Zevran wasn't sure that was something a mage could do, but he chose to subside. He could tell he'd lost Alim's company for the night, and wasn't sure if it was something he'd done. He was a little unsettled as well, but there didn't seem to be anything he could do about that.

 

He stood and strolled back to his tent. A pair of elegant Antivan leather boots leaned against the side. The note affixed to the side read,  _I thought you'd like a souvenir from the awful town with all the murder_ . When he straightened to scan the camp, Alim was pretending very hard not to look at him, distracted enough that the dog knocked him down as Zevran strode over.

 

_*Alim's family story is "Dragon, Dragon" by John Gardner_

 

 


	3. On second thought, let's not go to Orzammar. It is a silly place.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horrible cities, drunk mages, bad choices.

The awful town with all the murder was apparently nothing on Orzammar. The night after their first set of errands for the hopeful Bhelan, Alim was more agitated than Zevran had ever seen him. They'd claimed a corner of the tavern and the locals, while curious, gave them a fairly wide berth. The party had dwindled down to himself, Alistair, Leliana, and a very miffed Alim.

 

“I hate this place. I hate these people. I swear I will drown that smarmy little bastard in darkspawn dung the moment he gives me the troops I need.”

 

“Do we need to mutter about treason in a place quite this public?” Alistair asked, clearly thinking he was being quiet and looking a bit taken aback at Alim's ferocity.

 

“Considering how much we abused him to his face, I don't think the man could really be surprised that we don't like him.” Leliana graciously included herself (and all of them) in that we, though it was Alim's mouth that had been running.

 

“I don't think it's treason when you owe a man no allegiance?” Zevran suggested helpfully. He wasn't sure if it was shared frustration or just familiarity, but they didn't seem to mind his being there. Or it could be alcohol. Even being careful, the dwarven stuff was strong. He was feeling a bit spinny, and Leliana's cheeks were pink. Alistair was big enough to absorb more, it seemed, and Alim was nursing the same ale he'd begun with. 

 

“But everyone seems to think we do, now. I need the army. Couldn't care less about the king, but listen to the way they're talking. Look at the bastards who've jumped us in the street out of loyalty to the other smarmy bastard. And I'm sure it'd be just as bad if we'd picked him to back.”

 

“Would you like me to perhaps assassinate them both?” Zevran whispered. “They could begin over again with someone new and wretched.”

 

“Oh! Yes. Yes, let's do that. How soon can you--” He was cut off by a cuff to the back of his head from Alistair.

 

“No assassinations.” He scowled as best he could. “Besides, I haven't heard anything particularly good about Harrowmont, and Bhelan is planning on helping the Casteless, isn't he? It's something to support the lesser of two evils.”

 

Alim huffed. “Except he wants us to go and root out the only economy they have, by way of arbitrary executions.”

 

“But that place is so horrid. I can see why he thinks something must be done. It must make the alienages look positively homey.” Leliana's smile wavered at the silence that followed that. “What?”

 

Zevran put a hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eye firmly. “No.”

 

“I only meant--”

 

“No.” Alim's forehead made a dull thunk as it hit the table.”Hate this place.”

 

“I'm getting another round of drinks,” Leliana said, flustered, and hurried away. Alistair looked awkward and opted to stay quiet.

 

“Seems to think we're pets,” Alim muttered into the table.

 

Zevran nodded. Delightful woman in many ways, but he did have to wince sometimes. “Perhaps you should smack her with a rolled up broadsheet, like you do your pet bear?”

 

“He ate the last one I had.” Alim sat up again rather quickly and downed most of the rest of his ale at a go. It was rather interesting to watch, actually.

 

“I'm surprised you don't have more of a gag reflex. When have you had time to practice?” Zevran said, and apparently even Alistair got that one, from the horrified look he got. Alright, he was a bit tipsy.

 

“If you knew what lyrium tastes like, you wouldn't be surprised. And if you try to put honey in it it foams over.” He wiped his mouth defiantly, and Zevran snickered harder. “Whole city is claustrophobic.”

 

“You grew up in a tower with barely any windows,” Alistair pointed out. “And I think it's you who's claustrophobic. The city is... claustrophobizing?”

 

“There was still a sky out there. And I didn't hate those people. Most of those people.” Leliana returned with a tray and looked surprised when he pulled the nearest mug toward him quickly enough to slosh a bit.

 

“You ought to be careful with dwarven brews, Alim. What I said earlier was a bit of a joke, yes, but they really are strong.”

 

“Mages drink much stranger things than this. You missed my bit about Lyrium. It was pretty funny, too.” He appeared to have forgiven her, and she slid onto the bench beside him. “This place needs a library.”

 

“We were at the library. You made us wait there for an hour,” Alistair reminded him.

 

“No, here, in the bar. There's nothing to do.”

 

It was all Zevran could do not to laugh. Laugh a lot, anyway. “Tell us the truth. Have you ever gone drinking?”

 

“I don't know where you all got the idea that I've never tasted alcohol. You can do all kinds of things with alchemy and potions. Mulled wine and late night studying is an excellent combination, too.”

 

“I don't mean to question whether you have imbibed.” Though Zevran was beginning to notice that the mage doth protest too much. He could just see a bunch of giggly apprentice mages allowed weak wine, convincing each other that they were drunk. “A tavern is a very particular thing, a little world unto itself with its own laws and societies. And you are not supposed to read while you are here.”

 

“Taverns are stupid, then. Orzammar is stupid.” He looked around at all of them, seeming to challenge them, and did with the second ale what he had with the first.

 

“I don't think he concedes to benefit from your wisdom, Zevran.” Leliana snickered at him. “I don't see why you shouldn't read in a tavern, but if they kept many tomes about, they'd be spilled on in short order, don't you think?”

 

This was apparently the logic that could appeal to him. He shrugged and provoked a story about Grey Warden dissipation out of Alistair. For a while, they were calm and comfortable again. Zevran grew a bit quieter, enjoying the view in the golden light and soft haze in his head. They were all three of them rather fetching. Leliana's cool coloring was softened and the disarming gentleness of her pretty face was soothing. Alistair, for all he was pretty clearly a lost cause, was a fetching man. And Alim was special, he'd admitted long ago. He didn't know how, and apparently he might as well flirt with a tree for all the good it did him, but he could watch, and enjoy. He had such a dark complexion, unusual this far south. The clear, rich brown of his skin and the flattering fall of thick, raven hair... Maker's breath, he was delicious.

 

He was pulled from his reverie by the sudden arrival of another patron, a pretty, solid young lady who wanted surface gossip and apparently had a cousin who traded topside. It was hard to convince her that everyone who lived upstairs didn't know everyone else and none of them had met the woman in question. And then Leliana became convinced she had, in fact, which complicated matters even further and amused their visitor a great deal. The end result was that she thanked them for the fun with another round.

 

“Oh, this... this one actually tastes good. What is it?”

 

Leliana took a sip. “Mead. Spicy, too. You haven't had this before, with your sweet tooth?”

 

Alim had apparently forgotten that he was very worldly and experienced. “No, but I'm having more. One thing. One thing about this place I don't hate. Oh, it's fizzy. I like fizzy.”

 

There was the slightest hint of a concern in the back of Zevran's mind, but he hadn't figured out what it was, yet. “We will have to find you Antivan sparkling wine. It isn't quite as sweet as this, but oh, the bubbles.”

 

“Hmph. Antivan wine is a pale imitation of Orlesian wine.” Leliana sniffed.

 

“By which you mean you charge twice as much and compliment yourselves a great deal, while we simply take time to enjoy the fruits of our vineyards.” He looked imperious right back.

 

“Antivan wine is for children to practice on. No subtle notes, no artistry.”

 

“Only an Orlesian would think enjoying all nature has to offer in the pursuit of intoxication was doing something incorrectly.”

 

“One might as well be drinking grain alcohol and berry juice.”

 

“Because it is so much better to taste nothing at all and compliment oneself for being so sophisticated?”

 

Alim looked a little blearily up at Alistair. “I haven't had either.”

 

“Me neither. I'm with you, though. This is good. We got a barrel of its once, me and the other recruits, from a merchant who'd had a wheel break and needed the weight gone for an easy price while she got it the rest of the way to town. Even Duncan was pleased about that.”

 

Zevran and Leliana were both too wrapped up in good-natured, faux-nationalist bickering to notice Alistair getting up and bringing more of the stuff until it was on the table. Zevran's concern finally solidified in his mind. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

 

“Hm?” Leliana sipped delicately. “Do you concede?”

 

“Oh, no, but the honor of Antivan wineries will have to wait. I just had a thought.” He lowered his voice, though the other two were chattering so determinedly he didn't think he had much to worry about. “I suspect our friend has no idea whatsoever how to drink.”

 

“I think you're right, though he wouldn't like us to say it.” She laughed. “Poor thing. He'll have a terrible morning at this rate.”

 

“For which he has my sympathy. The first case of truly bad wine-head ranks high among personal tragedies.” He shook his head. “But if that were all... There is a stage for the doing of foolish things, first, and he is a mage. A mage whose favorite tricks seem mostly to make things explode.”

 

“Ah. I see what you mean. Should we try to find Wynne, do you suppose? Drunk apprentices must be a challenge she's met before.”

 

“I suspect Wynne is quite asleep. It's the middle of the night, for whatever night signifies underground.” Zevran frowned. “Perhaps we could have Sten hit him on the head.”

 

“I haven't seen Sten for hours. I think he gave up on us in disgust a long time ago.” She shook her head. “And I'm rather glad Morrigan's gone. Her instinct for trouble being what it is.”

 

“I am absolutely a fan of trouble myself, but not the sort that causes cave-ins. Or attracts attention from unfriendly locals when our giant has abandoned us. But I think perhaps it must be done delicately.” And he was a bit drunk to be doing anything delicate. When he looked back over, Alim was complaining again, to an increasingly dazed looking Alistair. Also a complication, if the mage had a tendency to be a surly drunk.

 

“I have decided I agree with you. This city is entirely too closed in. Let us walk out to the surface.” Zevran hooked his arm in Alim's quickly. Simple plans were often best.

 

“Oh. Oh, alright. Sodding city.” He shook his head slowly.

 

“Fresh air could be fun.” Alistair stood up. Then he sat down again very quickly. “Oops.”

 

“Oh, dear.” Leliana sighed. “One of us should take Alistair up to the room first, I think.”

 

“Perfect. Why don't you do that?”

 

“Why don't you?”

 

Fortunately, Leliana was at least as far gone as he was. He suspected that if they were matching wits on a more even field she'd outmaneuver him, but he spent a lot of time drunk that he doubted she had, for at least a few years. He could force his head through the fog. “You are stronger than I am. And more of a height to be that mountain's crutch.”

 

“I... there's not that much difference, Zevran.”

 

“Should you bed him, do remember to tell me how it goes. I'm interested in the details.”

 

“You are a horrible, awful man!”

 

While she was sputtering he urged Alim up from the table and left an extra coin for the barmaid. He was a greedy hedonist, but he knew what deprivation was like, and was always generous tipping. Quietly. He'd have been sneakier had any of his companions been paying more attention.

 

Alim was quiet on the way out of the tavern, but once they were in the street he had opinions again. “I wonder why it doesn't bother the others.”

 

“Why what doesn't?” He wasn't especially bothered at the moment, but he had Alim on his arm and his head buzzed delightfully. He was drunk enough that he had to think about each step, but solid enough still to steady Alim. He was too content to be bothered.

 

“Everything. Needing to deal with scummy politics to get what we need. No sky. Dusttown.”

 

“Ah. Well, that last one was a bit... upsetting.”

 

“It is like the alienage.” He shook his head and stumbled, but got himself back upright. “Not better or worse. Just like. Stupid. They're all dwarves.”

 

“I know.” He nudged Alim out into the hall of silly statues, quiet at this hour.

 

“I _like_ dwarves. I mean, the ones I know. That I do like. I don't want to sound like a human. This place, though, the people we've had to deal with.”

 

“You are far too delicate a flower for such intrigues as these?” Interesting that he was so distressed by this and not other things, but Zevran was too fuzzy to follow up on the thought.

 

“I just hate it here. And I have to die here.”

 

“Bah, so fatalistic all of a sudden? What was in that mead?”

 

“No, no, not now. Well, maybe now. Who knows? But it's what happens to Grey Wardens. The taint catches up, and they send us to the dark to die.”

 

Zevran stopped without meaning to, leaving them in the shadow of a statue that looked very ominous at the moment, though for all he knew it depicted the paragon responsible for the perfect cake recipe. “What?”

 

“Oh, that's not what they call it. Dying in battle, taking darkspawn with you, all very noble. The joining, you see. It kills you. Sometimes fast, right when they do the ritual. Sometimes slow, if you don't die then. Still taint, still poison. And when you're not good for anything anymore they put you in the deep roads.”

 

That didn't quite make sense, but Zevran was disquieted anyway. “So when you said the Grey Wardens can all go hang...”

 

“They don't tell you before, no. I like Alistair. Alistair's good to me, but the rest... I don't care one bit that Duncan's dead. He wanted it kept a secret. So you ought to tell anyone who asks.” He pulled Zevran forward, toward the door. “They say it's the only way to kill darkspawn. But you kill darkspawn, and no one made you drink that filthy stuff.”

 

He shouldered clumsily through the door and breathed in deeply. It was a cold night, but they were both too deep in their cups to mind too much when the sky was so brilliant, the stars looking close enough to reach up and come back with a handful of diamonds. Alim looked tired and gaunt in the hard, silver light, eyes a bit damp.

 

“So you'd rather not be a Grey Warden?” Zevran cast about for something less dismal. “What do you want instead?”

 

He began to carefully pick his way down the shallow stairs, slippery with years and weather. The merchant encampments were all closed for the night, a bit of a glow from braziers and late campfires creating nothing but an eerie emphasis on the shadows. “A cat.”

 

“You have a dog that must be good for twenty cats. Or a small horse.”

 

“I love him. He can stay. I just still want my cat.” He fell, inevitably enough. Fortunately they were close to the ground and he didn't seem damaged as Zevran helped him up. “I always wanted one, but you can't have pets in the tower. And someone would probably turn it into a spider anyway. I thought if I could do very well, I could get a position that would let me leave a lot. At least visit other circles. And then I could have my cat, and see things outside the walls again.” He shook his head. “That really was innocent. I didn't really realize until later what they did if you stepped out of line. People who raised you and taught you, willing to turn us tranquil or hand us over to the templars if you did anything they thought might make them look bad.”

 

“You are the most melancholy drunk. Come, let's get clear, and you can enjoy all the stars and open air you need, my little... coldhouse flower.” He was trying not to get sucked into Alim's mood. No one would have any fun, then. They were quiet as they picked their way past the market and down into the pass. He found a flat stone and settled Alim on it.

 

The mage opened a water skin and the air briefly smelled of honeyed intoxication. “Where did you get more of that?”

 

“The bar. You were there.”

 

“Sneaky little thing.” Oh, well, the point had been more to get the cranky drunk mage away from a cave full of dwarves that made him crankier than to get him to stop being drunk. “Come, if you're going to make it worse, try to think of happier things. ...Tell me the story about the dragon.”

 

“You can have some if you want.” He held it up to share and Zevran slid onto the ground beside him for a swallow. This was even stronger. Honey and fire. “So it begins with the dragon terrorizing the kingdom, doing... doing dragon things.”

 

He got muddled up several times and the story didn't quite come out making sense, but it did cheer him up. “And I think he may have married the princess, or maybe they were just friends after that, and they turned the queen back into a queen and not a rosebush anymore.”

 

He'd left out why the queen was a rosebush at all, but Zevran didn't mind. “How does it go again? The bit you like.”

 

“Dragon, dragon, how do you do?”

 

“I come from the king to murder you,” Zevran finished, and the significance that had escaped him sober struck him. “Are you my dragon, then?”

 

“You must be one of the first two sons. You didn't do a very good job.” He tried to take another swig but he'd finished the mead. He was starting to wobble even while sitting still.

 

“I hope we can keep that accursed third son at bay, then. I quite like you with your head attached.” He reached up and pulled Alim's scruffier than usual hair back from his face as a precaution.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“You'll thank me in a moment.” He tied the mess back with a spare bootlace. That was rather charming. His profile in the moonlight was odd and fey but no less sweet. If he weren't so thick or virtuous or whatever it was, wouldn't this be the perfect moment? To tangle his fingers more enjoyably in that soft hair, be warmed against the night's chill by each other. He even thought, as he tugged the stubby little ponytail to make sure it would stay, that it might work if he tried now. Alim's defenses were lowered. Certainly he wouldn't force the issue, but he might be justified in trying again. “You really are exceptionally lovely in this light.”

 

Alim shot him a look that, though a bit unfocused, seemed to him to be a little more promising than usual. “Come now, surely I haven't been shy in declaring myself wholly and entirely head over heels in lust with you? Let me take your mind off that rotten city under the stone. Favor me with just a kiss and when tomorrow's headache kills me I'll die happy.”

 

“Zevran, you are completely ridiculous.”

 

It was a more direct answer than he'd ever received to his teasing. “Why do you deny yourself the pleasures of the flesh, little flower?”

 

Alim looked like he might actually answer the question, then covered his mouth and fairly fell off the rock, spinning around. Zevran rolled his eyes and tried not to feel sympathetically dizzy as he amended, “My very drunk, somewhat stupid little flower.”

 

When he was quite done retching on his hands and knees, Alim looked miserable again, but a more honest, sensible kind of miserable than before. “I'm not sure I can get up.”

 

“You see why I put your hair back?”

 

“Yes, thank you. How'd you know?”

 

“That a man who's clearly never been drunk before and weighs perhaps seven stone soaking wet would make himself ill by mixing liquors and drinking enough to drown a...” Not cat. “Crow? I must be clairvoyant.”

 

“Where's my staff?”

 

“Wynne put it under her bed when you said you were coming to the tavern with us.” He was apparently not the only one a bit worried about overindulging novice mages.

 

“Oh. Right. It would help.”

 

“Give me your hand, lush.” Zevran hauled him up, leaning against the cliffside himself. “We'll get you to bed.”

 

“I'd rather sleep out here.”

 

It had its appeal, but he shook his head. “Too cold. And the others would think I had spirited you away to do with you as I will. Unless you'd like me to spirit you away? It might be tough to arrange on short notice.”

 

“Too tired.” He shook his head and winced.

 

“Ah, well, one never wants to start out a good spiriting hung over. Then bed it is.” To sleep alone, and such a pity that was. Alim wasn't good for much on the way back, though he did lean a bit more heavily on Zevran's arm, and need to be caught twice more. If he held on a moment longer than he ought to have, the Maker would probably forgive him. He was drunk, too.

 

Orzammar didn't have much accommodation for strangers, and the room was crowded and hot. At least even Leliana was asleep, curled in her bunk. The beds were hard and narrow, stacked three high, and a little short for the humans. Sten hadn't even bothered, joining the dog on the floor as another obstacle to step over. Zevran kindly steered Alim into the only bottom bunk open, where he crawled in with a grunt. He took the one above, only missing a rung on the ladder once or twice, and feeling himself swim with vertigo when he closed his eyes. Not quite bad enough to be worrisome. Almost nice. Floaty. He listened to Alim's breathing and was just conscious enough to chuckle when it turned into unintelligible muttering. Mages had that odd connection to the realm of dreams. Why shouldn't he talk in his sleep? It was cute.

 

He couldn't make out much of it. Someone named Jowan seemed important, though.

 


	4. Alim Surana and the Cascade of Inconvenient Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elves communicating poorly.

After an uncomfortable night for all and Alim's extremely crabby and not very useful day of hunting down every criminal in the slums, it was decided that they'd camp outside Orzammar, like the merchants did. Much more comfortable. They were all sore and nursing a few injuries (and several of them had lingering headaches), and it wasn't the private, enchanted world that their campsites often seemed, but it was better.

 

Zevran lounged contentedly in his bedroll after supper, enjoying the crisp smell of Alim's herbal simples and the soothing numbness of his painkilling tea. He had fairly faint, muddled memories of the evening, but a strong impression of Alim's drunken smiles earned once or twice. It seemed worth the headache. He'd taken a slice to the arm in their raid on the carta, but it wasn't bothering him too much. A nice, peaceful evening without mayhem might do him some good.

 

“Zev?” Alim's voice from outside his tent made him jump. He didn't think he'd ever been sought out for anything other than medical attention before, but maybe that was because he was always in such hot pursuit. Perhaps he should have let the Warden come to him before. “Could I come in?”

 

He knew better than to get his hopes up, but his breath caught a little, and then he snickered good-naturedly. “Yes, of course, join me in the furs.”

 

“Thanks.” He ducked inside, peeked behind him, and sighed. Zevran was afraid he might want to talk more about the casteless and dusttown. He wasn't sure what they'd said about it the night before, but he knew it had depressed them both and there was no reason to go over the same ground again when they could only come to the same conclusion. And he definitely didn't want to bemoan being an elf (and not a good one) sober.

 

But Alim looked less despondent and more... panicked. Clearly he'd have to ask. “And what are you hiding from?”

 

“Leliana... has been under the impression I was attempting to—to _court_ her.” He looked so frantic and it was so absurd that Zevran burst out laughing. “Not you, too.”

 

“Me? _I'm_ trying to court _you_ , as you well know, which is not quite the same thing.”

 

“Morrigan made fun of me, Wynne told me I wasn't allowed to break her heart, and Sten just... just made a face. If you're impossible, too, I'm going to run away and be a hermit.”

 

“I apologize. It must be terrible, having a lovely woman request that you ravish her.”

 

He didn't even look at Zevran, peeking through the tentflap again. “I didn't do it on purpose. She's my friend, and we talk about shoes and I helped her with Marjolane. I never meant to suggest... I gave her that cute little nug, since she'd been admiring them, and somehow...”

 

Zevran laughed again and turned it into a cough. “I believe you are as innocent as the day, my lovely little flower. You have certainly never in your life set out to court anybody.” Alim flushed, the color very becoming on his dark cheeks, and he stammered for a moment. This just got better. “Ah, am I mistaken?” Silence. “You have. Come, tell all.”

 

“No!”

 

Oh, Maker, the way he blushed. It was almost too cruel, but Zevran couldn't not hear this.“I will allow you to hide from Leliana, but only if you tell me who it was that earned your so elusive attentions. This is my price.”

 

“You never met— And it didn't work, anyway.”

 

“An unsuccessful attempt isn't erased from history.” But he did soften a little. Rejection always stung. And he had to disapprove of whatever misguided soul would turn down Alim's bright eyes. He would have to, of course, for anything but a dalliance, but his were special circumstances. And he was certainly a most misguided soul.

 

Alim sighed, checked outside again, and groaned. “Fine, but only because I don't want Alistair to even know.” Did he really think Zevran would toss him out of the tent if he didn't relent? He almost gave in, but no, the mage wasn't that dense. Dense, but not  _that_ dense. “His name was Jowan. He was another apprentice.”

 

“So far it makes sense.” Jowan. He'd heard that name but he couldn't think where. There went his theory that Alim rejected him because he didn't care for the attentions of another man. He waited for the mage to go on, but nothing was forthcoming. “And?”

 

“And?” Alim raised an eyebrow, apparently honestly confused.

 

“That was not a story. That was at best an informative aside. How did he win your approval? What did you do in pursuit of him? How came he to turn down such delights as you offer?”

 

“Oh. He never noticed. I gave up years ago. He found somebody he did like.” His expression darkened. Lingering jealousy?

 

A bit bleak, what there was of it. Poor Alim, winning Leliana's regard by accident and being completely passed over by the object of his own heart. “More fool he. Fie on this little siren who stole your prize, hm?”

 

“Oh, no, she was nice enough. I just wish they were somewhere safe, raising fat babies.”

 

He nodded. “The tower would not have released a few mages to live in unremitting dullness on a farm, I suppose, any more than they would authorize your cat?”

 

“The tower would not release a runaway priest and an apprentice they'd slated for tranquility to do so much as exchange letters. We stole his phylactery—that's what Templars use to track us down if we run. It didn't work very well. He did escape, but she didn't.”

 

“Was this the... disaster?”

 

“It also involved blood magic. Which is unappealing and dangerous, but they're the ones who pushed him to it. And if you call a mage a maleficar, no one will stop you doing whatever you like about it.” Alim sighed and covered his face in his hands. “Stupid man.”

 

“What became of him?”

 

“I'm not even sure. Nothing good. He tried to be an assassin and was almost as bad at it as you.” Zevran didn't have time to defend himself before Alim plowed ahead. “In the end he was sent back to the tower. They raised him and taught him, just like me, and they probably gave him to the templars to kill, because of what they drove him to become. I don't know if I'll even have it in me to ask. I don't know if I can take hearing about what an asset I am now that I'm useful again, when they made Jowan... When they'd have done the same to me just for helping him, if the Wardens hadn't been handy to deposit me with.”

 

Suddenly the way he seemed to understand Zevran's ramblings about the Crows seemed more depressing than impressive. “It sounds like you may have terrible taste in men.” Fortunately, Alim laughed. A tiny, bitter sound, but he did get a small smile. “Which has done me absolutely no good, somehow.” More of a laugh, now. “I'm sorry I made you speak of it. A wounded heart is a heavy burden.”

 

“Thank you.” He smiled, soft and unguarded, and Zevran's heart skipped a beat for some mysterious reason or other that he would not investigate. “But really, I'm more upset that my friend is dead or tranquil than because he thought my letters were from Dalora in the other dormitory.”

 

Zevran was caught between a wince and a snort. “Letters?”

 

“Oh yes. Letters.”

 

“Unfortunate letters?”

 

“I was sixteen.”

 

He shuddered in sympathy. “Very unfortunate letters.”

 

“There were... metaphors. It was a travesty and we shall not speak of it.” He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “She's going to hate me.”

 

“Oh, a little, I imagine. For a while. It will be unpleasant, knowing she... misconstrued.” And he couldn't claim he quite understood Leliana enough to predict what her response would be. Her attempts the other night to be the one who escorted Alim on his drunken stumblings made more sense now, and Zevran was glad for everyone's sake that he'd intervened, even if his motives had been entirely selfish. Indeed, he was very lucky, simply being in unrequited lust with the pretty mage. Poor Leliana was caught in a much thornier thicket. “Perhaps we should let her buy you shoes.”

 

“That's how I wound up in this mess. I never did get my oxhide boots.”

 

“Oxblood, and I maintain, dark and cool would suit you better.” Mmm, Alim in riding boots. Leliana did have decent instincts, even if she had to be Orlesian about it. “They must be full length, and perhaps with a touch of silver inlaid...”

 

At least Alim was laughing again. “No one would be able to see them.”

 

“Yes, while we're at it we must do something about this.” He plucked at the sleeve of that awful robe. “It is too cold here for most Antivan fashions that I know best, but I have seen with my own eyes that Fereldan has, in fact, discovered pants.”

 

“I told Leliana and I'll tell you. It's not just tradition for tradition's sake. Part of the magic is worked into the design.” But he looked, perhaps, a little interested.

 

“So we take these dreary sleeves and make them into a lining. A long coat, I think, leather and well tailored, fitted to here and then flaring out, like so.” He gestured, hands an inch from Alim's waist, crafting the mental image with meticulous delight.

 

“You know, I tried on a few pieces of Leliana's armor and it was damnably heavy. How much leather are you going to make me wear?”

 

“Either as much as possible or as little, depending on my mood and how lucky I am. Besides, armor is reinforced, and that is a great deal heavier. Now stop arguing or your imaginary pants will be leather, too. ...No, too late, they are.”

 

“Imaginary me isn't going to be able to move.”

 

“I don't think I need you to very much, in this scenario.” He was but mortal. If he was going to imagine Alim in Antivan leather, dark and form fitting (and somehow not looking ridiculous in the process), he was also going to imagine him lounging in the bedroll, hair fanned out around him, touched by that delicious blush and eyes brilliant. “My imagination is very good, don't worry.”

 

“It's not as strange as when Leli does it, anyway.”

 

“Leliana ogled you shamelessly, _and_ planned the clothes she was going to rip off you, and you were still surprised?”

 

“That's not the same. You're not a human, and you're making fun of me.” He sounded so matter-of-fact that Zevran was left speechless for a moment. “I just thought it was more of her seeming to think elves are dolls she can play with. It's a little uncomfortable, and... What did I do to deserve that look?”

 

Zevran rallied himself. “All this time, you thought I was  _teasing_ you?”

 

“It won't be funny any more if you explain the joke,” Alim said, but he looked suddenly unsure.

 

“Are you sure your first love didn't return your affections after all? Because I suspect if he'd climbed into your bed you'd think he'd remembered some magical formula he'd meant to ask you about before midnight.”

 

He probably deserved the glare he got for that. “The coast is probably clear. I should get back to my own tent.”

 

“As you like, but a moment first.” Zevran caught his hand. “I would never insist that you must accept me, but let me at least be clear. I swear by the Maker and my mother's bones, I absolutely wish to ravish you. You are surpassingly lovely and utterly bewitching. Give me an evening and I promise to bring you to heights of pleasure your scholarly little heart never imagined. And I would be particularly honored to be the first so graced.”

 

“Goodnight, Zevran.” Blushing furiously (it was still cute), he ducked out in a mad hurry, and Zevran heard him trip in his hurry.

 

Curses. He didn't know what had made him think it was a good time for that, with Leliana so fresh in his mind. But that had thrown him. Alim was sheltered and awkward, and Zevran could believe he hadn't been pursued before the Crow and the bard had independently launched their campaigns. He was worth chasing, but if you didn't get to watch him decimate darkspawn with witchfire, he might be too quiet to notice.

 

So this was new to him. Fine. The trouble was, Alim wasn't actually stupid. And if he had made an attempt on this friend of his, he probably wasn't just disinterested, which certainly happened, albeit rarely. There was something going on in that lovely little head, and Zevran wished to see it taken care of.

 

Next time they stopped it was in the deep roads, and no one was sure that it was night, precisely, just that they were bone tired and damaged and couldn't do any more for a while. They found a defensible old ruin with a stream running through and all huddled inside, eating woebegone rations and taking it in turns to steal a few hours of sleep. Zevran volunteered for second shift with all the innocence he could manage.

 

His gamble paid off, because he was very clever. Watching the grim caverns for incoming horrors only went on a short, lonely while before he heard soft padding behind him and then splashing. “That water must be freezing,” he said, speaking at the bottom of his voice.

 

“Not anymore. Magic, remember?” The reply came as a whisper, more prone to hissing and carrying than just speaking quietly. It didn't seem like the time to explain this aspect of sneaking, however. Later. “I have something in my hair that might be, um, genlock. Bits. It's making me crazy, but I think it'll soak out.”

 

“Stop exploding them, perhaps?”

 

“But it's so, so satisfying.”

 

“At least don't do that thing where the dead one walks around and helps us? I found it disturbing. Me!”

 

“I have named him Ser Marrow Knockyknees, and you should show some respect.” There was a slight squelching noise it was best not to think too hard about, and Alim came to stand beside him. They'd left only a single, faint torch, hoping not to catch attention, and the light from the mage's staff was just as bright, creating strange, overlapping shadows. He braced his elbows where a window ledge had once been and only half crumbled away. “I, um, I'm sorry. For last night.”

 

“Which part?” Zevran didn't think he'd done anything _wrong._ A few things foolish or ill advised, maybe, but not wrong.

 

“Running away. You... you surprised me.”

 

“Ah. That.” He shook his head. “I clearly misjudged. No harm done.”

 

“So you really do...?”

 

“Admire you? Desire you? I can't think of another word that rhymes. Give me a moment. But yes.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Knowing that I am not mocking you, does this bother you?”

 

“N-no. It surprises me.”

 

“You tried that euphemism already.”

 

“No, I meant it the way it sounded. It's not a possibility I accounted for.”

 

Zevran half turned toward him, hoping no Darkspawn would choose just this moment to approach them. In the half light he could only make out that Alim's gaze fell somewhere between his feet. “Whyever for? I can see the shy student languishing for unrequited love, I suppose, but, well, is there anything I could possibly have done to be more clear? Written you lurid poetry?” That didn't sound like a bad exercise, actually. “Had my request for a tryst illuminated by chantry sisters?”

 

“I'd have thought you were working very hard on that joke.”

 

Zevran sighed, rubbing his temples for a moment. “Why, though? You do... desire companionship, yes?” A slight nod. “It is a hard world, it's true, but a vast majority of the souls who pass through it will find someone to share it with, be it for an hour or a lifetime. What could possibly be so wrong with you that you think it impossible?”

 

“Elf, mage, foreigner,” he whispered.

 

“Alright, a challenge, but not insurmountable.” He didn't feel the need to point out that he was two off that list himself and clearly unperturbed by the third.

 

“Any of those alone, maybe. But it's enough that something will always be against me. When I was little, I remember my mother... _Oh, who will we ever marry you to, my little Alim?_ ” There was a hint of an accent and his face and voice softened when he called her to mind. Sweet. “She had an idea she could keep me from the tower, for a little while, but even leaving that aside, you can tell by looking that I'm northern. I was born in Fereldan, but my family came from Tevinter.”

 

“That must be a story.”

 

“I'm sure, but I don't know much of it. Whatever happened was ugly enough that I was to hear it when I was older, and then they took me off to the Circle. They let me write, but she couldn't read very well, and important things never were said.” He shook his head. “She really didn't think she could arrange a marriage for me, though.”

 

“Before or after you explained you wanted to be married to a boy?”

 

“Alright, there are _four_ problems.” It had just been a guess, but apparently he was right. Well, not many with a taste for women would have been able to easily turn down Leliana. “Maybe that's why I hoped another apprentice... But when he was reading the letters he thought were from someone else, he'd tell me about them.”

 

“Ouch.”

 

“I brought it on myself. And he'd take a moment or two out of gloating to tell me he was sure I'd find a girl someday who didn't mind an elf. He would say I might as well be a brother to him, but that never felt like it meant much. It would always be one thing or another. I suppose I just... gave up.”

 

“That is extremely sad.” He kept his tone light, but it really was. Poor boy. “Well, I really must ask. When you are done being surprised, how do you think you'll feel?” Maybe he actually would give up if he was rebuffed again. But probably not.

 

“I think... I will consent to a tryst.”

 

While the thrill that passed through him was powerful and immediate and deeper than he wanted it to be, he mostly wanted to get Alim to say _tryst_ again in the confused, clinical little voice. “I'm sorry, what?”

 

“Trysting. You. Yes.”

 

“You really are a master wordsmith.” Tryst.

 

“Do you have to giggle?”

 

“Yes, but I think I can stop now. Not this moment, I take it, as we might be set on by monsters and spiders any moment?”

 

“No, not here. I hate this place. I wouldn't want to mix it with, er, something I want to do.” He shook his head. “And, yes, there are logistical issues. Including...” He nodded back at their companions, still asleep, or hopefully so. “If we don't die in the next little while or so, though.”

 

“I'll make a particular effort. You do understand... I do enjoy your company, and find you quite attractive, but that is all I'm offering. Pleasure, a little time to forget what lies behind us and ahead?”

 

He nodded mechanically. “That seems right, all things considered. We're all very likely to die at... Oh, any given moment.”

 

“For future reference, should you ever again set out to do the seducing, perhaps don't tell your lovers that they are probably a better option than a bloody death, since you happen to have the time?” But he was teasing. And more pleased than he had any right to be. “Favor me with just a taste, now, sweetling?”

 

He thought that was very gallant, but even in this dim light he could see Alim's confused cat expression. “Hm?”

 

“I'm going to kiss you now, unless you'd rather I didn't.”

 

“Oh!” He almost squeaked the word, and Oghren shifted a few paces away. “Wouldn't that be nicer out where there's air?”

 

“My, we are fastidious.” He couldn't remember exactly what was slurred a few nights ago, but he had the impression Alim had good reason not to like the Deep Roads. “Your hand, then?” Alim let him take it, hesitant, and he bent and kissed the palm, chivalrous as a knight on a tapestry. Alim shivered gratifyingly. Since he didn't pull away, Zevran kissed a little higher, on the wrist, and the mage gently slid his hand free. “You needn't worry. Even I wouldn't choose a cold shelf of stone surrounded by monsters for a dalliance. Well, not unless I had very few other options.”

 

Alim looked at the floor, hands held to his chest. “Good. I, er, that is...”

 

It was hopefully too dark to see Zevran roll his eyes. “You should really lie down and sleep, you know. There will be little enough of rest ahead of us.”

 

“I don't think it's going to happen. Don't worry. I never sleep a lot.” He shrugged.

 

“Well, then you may help me keep awake. And _I_ will help _you_ with that hair.” He moved behind Alim and ran his fingers experimentally through soft, pretty hair, wishing there wasn't a lingering hint of Darkspawn sludge about it. Next time. “Tell me... Another of your mother's stories?”

 

“Alright.” He shivered a little when Zevran's fingers brushed the back of his neck. “I tried to put my braid back in, but it might be a little crooked.”

 

“Do you usually consider that thing to be straight?”

 

“Yes, it's supposed to look like that.” He made a small, indignant sound. “No one believes me. Alright, well, once there was a man who fell under a sleeping spell, and after years and years, a crow flew down from the sky...”

 

“I like this story already.”

 


	5. The Care and Feeding of Angry Mobs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alim is difficult to figure out. Zevran is up to the challenge.

Alim was more successful in dismissing him to rest, and having had good reason to acquire a knack for sleeping anywhere, actually managed to drift off into a restless, jerky dreamscape, leaping from image to image, all disquieting and the moreso for never being fully formed. Crows and darkspawn, Tali and Rinna, bits and pieces of lives that had been over for a long time, one way or another, or had yet to be ended but would surely come to grief soon.

 

He was trying to fight his way to Rinna, not for the first time or the hundredth, change anything, anything at all about what even his dream self knew had happened. She was held by those horrid shrieks, the ones that made him cringe more than any other creature from the dark for reasons he wasn't entirely clear on, but that was close enough to the betrayal of comrades in arms. He took long, slow steps, like he was forcing his way through wind and water, and never drew any closer.

 

The typical stuff of nightmares. What Crow had ever slept easy? He almost didn't mind, half aware as he tended to be in dreams. The ruthlessly organic sound of a blade tearing messily through flesh and bone was more vivid than usual. It didn't seem fair. He suddenly staggered forward, landing precisely where he would have to meet dead eyes and spattered blood. This, too, was business as usual. His dreams were not subtle.

 

What was new was the color of those eyes, a deeper, colder brown without hints of gold, shadowy and distant as a Fereldan moonrise. The shape, too, deep-set and hooded instead of classically almond-shaped. In life they were be mischievous and a bit bewildered, not wicked and wild.

 

Alim. Alim lay before him, not Rinna, already hopelessly cold.

 

He woke with a soft gasp, being gently prodded by Alistair's foot. “Come on, Zev, so many darkspawn to slay.”

 

“How delightful.” He was used to pushing back demons from the waking world, and he hauled himself up without more acknowledgment than a groan that had just as much to do with being stiff and cold.

 

If he was a little more worried about Alim that day, and the next, and so on, he wasn't really going to admit it to himself. Why would he? Everything was fairly worrisome in a horrible hole in the ground full of monsters. He didn't have Alim's horror of Orzammar, finding the laws a simplified version of what was to be found everywhere and the politics practically homey, but he was beginning to come around on objecting to the closed-in spaces that never seemed to end, that produced horrors even Antivan slums could not quite equal.

 

He was never tolerating spiders again, certainly.

 

But they all got out, battered and with new twitches and nightmares to add to the collection anyone strange enough to be a Warden's companion carried about with them. Alim limped back most of the way leaning on someone's arm, usually Alistair's. He'd been clipped by a darkspawn mace and had bits of golem bounce off his shin. He insisted on carrying Caridin's crown, though he practically dragged it in a burlap sack, apparently hoping it would shut up any dwarves they met if the more talkative Grey Warden could shake it in their faces.

 

Zevran was behind him and Alistair, hurriedly scanning their surroundings at every slight noise and feeling he'd never be properly warm, dry, and not in the presence of spiders again, and he tried to focus on the two of them rambling. It was more amusing than his aching feet and the stinging itch of a hastily bandaged gouge from a leghold trap improperly disarmed.

 

“What if we just take it to the assembly chamber and toss it in the middle of the floor, and we'll just tell them, 'Paragon says whoever touches it first gets the throne.'”

 

“I don't think that's a very good idea. What if two of them got there at once? We'll be back where we began.”

 

“Alright, we'll give it to that woman who gave us pointers in Dusttown. Nice lady. She could use a break. Be queen.”

 

“How hard did you hit your head?”

 

“I did not hit my head. Someone else hit it for me. But really. We could give it to anyone. Who did you like? I didn't like anybody.”

 

“Your plans aren't usually this terrible. I'm worried, is all.”

 

“You wouldn't let me have Zev assassinate them. I'm just trying to find a good solution.”

 

Feeling summoned, Zevran hurried forward just enough to be slightly in Alistair's way. “I can still do some assassinating. Won't they be surprised then!”

 

“No! No assassinations! Ugh, give my arm a rest. You two deserve each other.” Alistair unceremoniously transferred Alim to Zevran's arm with so little warning they nearly fell over. “Oh, oops, I didn't mean to actually drop you, just pretend to. Are you alright?”

 

“No, I'm going to die. You'll be sad, then.” Alistair sighed to show them how put upon he was and moved to talk armor maintenance with Oghren. Alim tried to stand up straighter, not putting as much weight on a crutch who was also limping a bit and the same height he was. “He'd be terribly sad. He'd have to put up with all of you alone.”

 

“That would be awful for the poor man. We must keep you alive.” Zevran wanted to enjoy this, but there came a point where even he was just too bone-tired. “Morrigan would eat him alive.”

 

“Poor Alistair.”

 

Alright, he had to make some showing, or he'd start to worry himself. Alim wasn't competent to hold up his end of the banter right now. “And besides, that is such a charming face to allow to be damaged.”

 

“Well, that's a... What did you do again?”

 

“I discovered the hard way that Leliana hadn't quite disarmed a trap.”

 

“Such a charming... calf, thereabouts, I guess?”

 

“I hope you never have to do your own seducing, my sweet. I have never seen one so hopeless.” Though it was so poorly executed as to be enthralling. Perhaps there was a sort of backwards genius in it.

 

“It's not me. It's all the lyrium. The raw stuff down here. Been giddy for days now.”

 

“Of course, the lyrium makes you bad at flirting.”

 

Limping and scraping, they made their way back to Orzammar, and did not give the crown to anyone other than the princeling they'd already been planning to, despite several suggestions from their fearless leader (the grumpy one up front, a dozing grandmother, a nug). Despite Alim's eagerness to put the damn place behind them, they stayed one night after the coronation to just sleep. And take baths. Long baths were necessary all around, except perhaps for Oghren.

 

Everyone but their new companion was a bit giddy to be on the surface again. Lingering aches aside, even cold sunshine and a biting wind might as well have been a proper Antivan summer at the moment. With only one more piece of their army to gather and the haunting miseries of the Deep Roads left behind, everything seemed so much brighter.

 

In late afternoon they reached a little village and stopped for the kind of supplies that Orzammar didn't offer. Food that didn't taste of must and mushrooms, for one thing, and they'd been out of touch for a bit, so gossip was on the shopping list, too. The village was small, but a nexus for traders and hunters, and they had managed to catch the place on a market day. They could, it was determined, stop a little early, spend the night in the inn, have a moment to breathe and remember that there was a world without Broodmothers that was worth keeping that way.

 

Leliana and Alistair were perfectly happy to wander around, and Oghren found an ale tent quickly enough. Sten and Morrigan chose to register their bored disinterest by lingering on the outskirts of town. Wynne wound up deep in conversation with a local weaver, somehow. Zevran was not especially drawn to the comings and goings of a country market and almost decided to go drinking with the dwarf, but once again he found Alim (followed by the dog) catching his eye.

 

Perhaps he'd never been let to wander before. He didn't speak to anyone and seemed reluctant to ask even the most businesslike questions of the vendors, but his bright eyes drank everything in. He even refrained from glaring at people who stared to find an elf wandering in their midst, though in a ragtag crossroads like this, it seemed less common than in much of Fereldan. A master of following marks without being caught at it, Zevran was quite amused during the twenty minutes or so he spent shadowing Alim.

 

He was distracted briefly by a set of neatly stamped leather bracers in a tanner's wares, but he really didn't have money to spare for pretty frivolities, even if leather cuffs had all sorts of uses beyond archery. He considered suggesting them to Leliana (and then explaining this point to her), but before he spotted her, he saw Alim again, talking to a pair of children.

 

Zevran wouldn't have guessed the flighty, somewhat crabby mage would relate well to the small and irritating creatures, but the interview seemed to be going well. Well, the boy looked close to tears and the girl very serious, but it didn't appear to be the elf's fault. The girl held up a little bundle. Alim peeked inside and nodded, and as Zevran approached, cautiously, both of their expressions lightened.

 

“I don't think it's infected, but give me a moment to look,” Alim was saying. He took the child's burden and whispered a few words, then passed it back. “There, it took, I can tell. She'll want more sleep than usual, but she should be fine. Be gentle when you clean the wound, give her a very light elfroot tea tonight, and don't let her tangle with any more weasels.”

 

Both had scampered off by the time Zevran reached his side. “And that was?”

 

“A rabbit. With little spots. Her name is Shiverin' Jemmy.” He looked very pleased with himself.

 

“I wouldn't have guessed you were such a hand with little ones. Is it because you're so short you can pass as one of their own?”

 

Alim swatted ineffectively at his arm, but apparently a short joke from another elf didn't sting much. “Almost all mages are at the tower by they time they're ten. Much later and they just call you an apostate. We get some who are barely talking. It's much easier to be fond of them than annoyed all the time.”

 

“But you're so good at being annoyed all the time.” A little ways off, the two children seemed to have found their mother, who looked back at Alim with a less than grateful expression. “Perhaps she was hoping it would be for the stewpot and she did not appreciate your simples?”

 

“No simples. Wynne's insisting I learn basic medicinal magics. I was practicing.”

 

“You... used magic on a pet rabbit. In a provincial little nowhere town, far from the circle and with a hut for a Chantry... Are you still lyrium-drunk?”

 

Alim frowned, looking like he'd rather not think about it. “I'm already a foreign elf in a dress with a glowing stick strapped to my back.”

 

“Yes, perhaps we should have thought of that earlier.” Zevran glanced about them. Morrigan was more likely to attract attention than Alim, but she was hanging back and wouldn't be caught dead performing spells to cheer up local brats. Usually a Crow was the _cause_ of distracting disasters, but that had taught him a bit about how to spot them coming. “Shall we casually steer you to where the dwarven merchants congregate? They seem to be less nervous of men in dresses with shiny sticks.”

 

“Alright, for a few minutes.”

 

Zevran tried to make it look natural, tugging him toward the stand with the bracers. No sudden movements and no glancing about for dark looks being cast their way. “When did you last see Alistair?”

 

“I'm not sure. He's pretty tall, though.” Alim rocked to his tiptoes and peered around, reminding Zevran again of a cat. “That woman's still watching us,” he reported.

 

“I would have guessed. But no Alistair?” A town this small was unlikely to have any templars attached to the chantry. That could help. Alistair wouldn't seem hopelessly confused and ineffective if you weren't used to the real ones.

 

“He was going to ask about and see if there'd been darkspawn sightings. Maybe he went inside somewhere. There's Leliana.”

 

“Will not do for my purposes, but it is always cheerful to have a pretty face in view.” Come to think, if she could talk like a sister, she might be some help, even if she was currently dressed like a scruffy mercenary. He steered Alim toward her, but before they'd gone many steps, Zevran could feel pursuit closing on them. Quiet, stalking pursuit. And his own instincts aside, the dog was beginning to rumble threateningly. He began to drag Alim toward the ale tent, hoping a crowd would dissuade interest in them, but the man had longer legs than they did and no need to look casual. And, shiny sticks being what they were, he had no trouble aiming for Alim. Excellent mage he might be, but he had the physical combat instincts of a hedgehog. A hand on his shoulder spun him around.

 

“You! Keep away from my children!” The man was very big, and he had friends with him. Alim already looked pale. “Where'd you crawl out from?”

 

“O-orzammar.” Oh, no, Alim wasn't fearless. All of a sudden he quaked and cringed like the most deferential alienage elf. It was uniquely disturbing to watch. “We just walked into town this hour.”

 

“And I'm sure you don't know anything about the Hales farmstead.”

 

“No, nothing.” His eyes were firmly planted on the ground and he wound his fingers in his dog's collar, holding the beast carefully back.

 

“Apostate!” That came from the growing crowd. The epithets that followed were less distinct, but they seemed to have something specific to accuse him of. Just their luck. And it sounded messy, too, probably darkspawn, but easy to blame on the mage. Two of the crowd were armed with hunting knives and a thrown rock struck Alim on the shoulder. In another moment the wardog was going to go for offending throats with his master so menaced.

 

“Time to run, little flower.”

 

He didn't move, too busy cowering. “No, no, I'm a mage of the Circle, I only just arrived, please...”

 

“What's going on here?” Alistair strode up, Leliana a step behind, with a large Andrastean medal around her neck that she usually kept tucked away for private devotions. “Templar coming through.”

 

“You're a templar?” Zevran was disappointed to see the locals weren't quite as oblivious as he'd hoped, appraising Alistair's battered, mismatched armor with an air of distaste. But there were no more rocks.

 

“I'm... dressed for fieldwork.” Leliana must have quickly coached him, but he wasn't a natural. This had better be concluded quickly. “And I... I'm not pleased to be dragged away from consulting with the Revered Mother because you couldn't leave my poor mage be.”

 

“What happened at the Hales weren't natural!”

 

“And investigating unnatural things doesn't seem to you to be a good reason to bring along a _sanctioned_ mage? That's exactly what we have them for, you know.” He nodded, looking impressed at his own logic. Most of the crowd was backing down, though that might have more to do with a large man carrying a sword and shield instead of repurposed skinning knives. “I hope you're not interfering with chantry investigations,” he added, his tone edging more on schoolyard taunt than imposing threat.

 

Zevran didn't find it very intimidating, but all but the first man seemed to be losing interest in antagonizing the mage. That one was determined, though. “He used magic on my children.”

 

“Um...”

 

Alistair looked lost, and Zevran had to step in. “He healed a pet rabbit.”

 

“Oh. I see. Well, that is an... infraction... of the... enchanting fur bearing animals statute. There will be discipline.” He nodded solemnly, and Leliana caught Alim's arm and led him resolutely away while Alistair stood in the man's way. Zevran thought it best to beat a retreat, too, taking a different path around the market stalls and joining them on the other side.

 

“Alistair did a good job, all things considered, but I think we'd still better cut our shopping shot.” She frowned. “I'll find everyone. You wait with Alim on the road.” Zevran vaguely noted that she was avoiding being alone with him, for all they seemed to be friends again. He walked quickly, ushering Alim along and finding a stand of scrubby trees to slip behind to wait for the others.

 

Alim looked downcast and small the whole way, and Zevran found himself unsettled. He'd wanted to believe in his innocently fearless Warden, found something particularly alluring in that, maybe something to admire independent of his flirtation. It stung in more ways than he liked to see Alim reduced to scraping and whinging like that. Perhaps everyone had a weak spot, but...

 

“Well, sorry about that, I guess I cheated everyone out of a night in a bed.” He straightened and stretched, all the deference and fear suddenly vanished. “Should have thought that through. But at least Bryony and Marthas have their bunny.” He leaned against a tree trunk and scritched the dog's ears.

 

Zevran frowned, lost. “What?”

 

“I like bunnies. Boring, but very soft.” He smiled at Zevran. “Oh, you mean angry mob procedure? It's something they taught us all at the Circle, if you didn't walk in already knowing it. Defer, whine, agree to everything, don't use magic if you can possibly avoid it. Seem harmless. Makes me feel dirty, but there it is.”

 

“That was an act?” For a moment the thought crossed his mind that the other elves he'd learned to despise for their resignation to human control might have been acting a part, too, but that was much less pleasant than deciding he'd never been more attracted. “What hidden depths you have, my sweet.”

 

“I'm not going to take any theater circuits by storm. It's just self preservation. If I hurt any of them I'm not sure even being a Grey Warden would help with the templars. Maleficar means whatever they want it to mean. And it wouldn't help.” He sighed heavily. “What a town. I hope none of those children are mages.” He was bothered, for all his bravado. He just wasn't cowed.

 

“If you were not so busy calling up skeletons and blizzards to fight your battles, I would say you had excellent instincts for a career in assassination.”

 

“I can tell that's a compliment, but I think I'm much better off fixing bunnies.”

 

“You are the strangest person I have ever met. And that, too, is a compliment.” On a whim, he caught Alim in a one-armed embrace. He was willing to just squeeze and let go, but Alim flushed faintly and hugged him back. It was enough of an invitation. He slid his other arm around Alim's waist and pulled him close. From a few inches away and in daylight, he had his first chance to notice a slight touch of freckles on Alim's nose and cheekbones, dark on darker skin. “Yes?”

 

“Yes.” He nodded shallowly, nervous but smiling. Zevran made a mental note to participate in rescuing Alim from any more mobs that might come up. It was only a quick little kiss, soft and sweet and indulgent. It was, he told himself, a deliberate tease. He'd already had hopes he'd finally see Alim in his bedroll tonight, and had every intention of keeping the mage's mind on that, too. It was rather pleasant to kiss without the pressure of what was to come next, though. Soothing.

 

“Oh, Maker, at least wait until there's a tent handy.”

 

“We've done it now. Alistair's virgin eyes,” Zevran teased, letting Alim go.

 

Alim was still a bit redder than usual, but he was game. “Oh, dear, this wasn't news to you, was it, Alistair? There's this thing called kissing. Apparently all the rage.”

 

“These newfangled ideas. Came in from Orlais, did it?” Alistair said gamely, though he still wasn't looking at them and bent to pet the dog.

 

“Are we tormenting Alistair? May I join in?” Morrigan swept rather dramatically into the clearing.

 

“If you like. I was considering explaining to him that girls and boys often have different parts,” Alim said, chipper.

 

“Don't break Alistair. I need him to reach things on high shelves.” Leliana.

 

“What are high shelves even for, anyway? I don't see any damn reason.” Oghren.

 

Sten just grunted, and Wynne caught Alim's eye, arms crossed. He immediately went to her side as they all started back down the road. Zevran listened in a bit, just feeling nosy.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“These things do happen, and it was more or less contained. Honestly, I'm not even very surprised. From what Alistair and I were able to learn, the farmstead must have been destroyed by darkspawn with magic.”

 

“But I probably shouldn't have used magic around children without permission.”

 

“Well, yes, don't do that again. We're lucky Alistair was there and can more or less sound like someone who knows what he's doing.” She sighed deeply. “Have you had a chance to read the book I loaned you?”

 

“The one I gave you?”

 

“Well, I've finished it.”

 


	6. The Decameron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is almost entirely porn. I suppose you could skip it without missing much. It has a literary allusion for a title, though, so that's classy.

Without any real desire to listen in on the mage book club, Zevran had to keep busy by annoying Sten and bantering with Oghren. They walked for a few hours, wanting road between them and the town, and it was quite dark when they finally stopped to camp. Dinner was late and a bit unsatisfying, and everyone was tired.

 

And still Wynne kept Alim busy. Zevran couldn't help suspecting that she might be occupying his time on purpose when he saw she'd had Alim start reading to her. That was just flagrant stalling. But what could he do? Alim clearly regarded her highly and trying to steal the kid away from her wouldn't recommend him. He sat by the fire until he was yawning and everyone seemed to have drifted off but the first watch and the mages. He was very close to giving up and going to bed when the dog trotted up.

 

“Oh, hello. Are you also feeling a bit neglected, um... I don't think anybody ever mentioned your name to me. Dog.” The beast wagged its little stub of a tail. “What do I do? Throw a stick and you bring it back?” He cast about and found a bit of kindling to toss. The animal trotted into the darkness and returned immediately, making happy noises. “You know, I envy you. Such bliss, and all you need is an airborn branch. Why do we make happiness so complicated?” He threw it again. It was back in his lap and slobbery in a few moments.

 

He tossed it a few dozen times before Alim suddenly was sitting on the ground beside him. “Having fun?”

 

“Yes, actually. What is this monster's name?”

 

“Oh, it's Fen. It's one of the only Elvish words I know. It means wolf.”

 

Zevran nodded, unsure what the Dalish would make of that, and slid his hand onto Alim's knee. The mage inhaled sharply, not even trying to muffle his reaction. He didn't seem much harder to please than the dog. “Do you think he could spare us for a little while?”

 

“If, um, you're not too tired.” Alim grinned nervously. The friendly flicker of firelight didn't take anything away from the warden's fey beauty that Zevran had previously associated with moonlight and shadows. “Wynne and I got wound up in spell theory.”

 

“Or she is trying to keep the likes of me away from the sweet flower of youth.” He was pretty sure only Alistair had actually seen them kissing, but word traveled fast, and for all he knew, Alim had already told her. They were close. Announcing one's intentions to indulge in a dalliance did sound like Alim, but perhaps not to the mentor who seemed almost a parent to him.

 

Alim wrinkled his nose. “Sweet flower of youth?”

 

“That is a bit overripe even for me,” Zevran agreed. “Come to think, how old are you?”

 

“Nineteen. Almost twenty! I, um, finished my apprenticeship pretty early, actually. It takes some time.” He became very interested in a loose thread on the end of his sleeve.

 

“Oh, I am robbing the cradle. But we already know I'm a bad man.”

 

“I do remember something about assassinating, yes.” He looked more comfortable.

 

“I am well aware you have no idea what you're doing. Nothing involved is so difficult as all that. And you seem to be a quick study in general.” He squeezed Alim's knee and stood, holding out a hand. “Come along.”

 

Alim let Zevran haul him up and kissed him once he had his feet. Zevran had always liked kissing for its own sake, but in the sorts of encounters that had made up so much of his history, partners were often uninterested. Too much intimacy, not enough reward. No one had told Alim any of this, apparently, and he was a natural. Soft, yielding lips to nibble, more than enough enthusiasm to make up for lack of technique, a cooing sigh and arms that immediately tightened around him, the strength of the clinging embrace flattering. Indulging himself a moment, he ran his fingers through Alim's hair, slow and luxurious. It really was soft, the smooth, thick waves delicious on his fingers.

 

Altogether it went on a lot longer than either of them had planned for, and when Zevran finally found the presence of mind to step back, he was rather more breathless than he'd expected to be. “About those tents?”

 

“Why'd you stop?” Came a drunken holler from across the camp.

 

Zevran coughed. “Ahem. Case in point.”

 

“Oghren, neither of us is a woman.”

 

“Elves! Close enough!”

 

“Watch for darkspawn like you're supposed to.” Alim groaned. “I'm sure a piece of cloth and some sticks will absolutely shield us from notice.”

 

“You can generally hear Alistair snoring all over camp,” Zevran agreed.

 

“You can not!” A sleepy mutter from off to their left.

 

And then they were in the tent, and the faintly flickering canvas of the walls defined the whole world.

 

Alim conjured a tiny, glimmering light to float above them and sat in a cross-legged pose of close attention that Zevran recognized from his lessons with Wynne. He wouldn't spend time wondering what that meant. “Well... How are we going to proceed?”

 

That was a question he'd considered at length, actually, even if Alim's way of putting it made him laugh. Before he could decide to be offended, Zevran took his hand. It wasn't just a gesture, either. It was like kissing him. He was so engaged, eager and delicate both. Definitely a novelty. Zevran didn't think he'd tangled himself up with a virgin since he was close to one himself, and quite a bit younger than Alim. Maybe that was the source of his current fixation.

 

“In all important respects, that is entirely up to you, but I suspect you'd like me to take the lead to a certain extent? I'm very good.” Alim snorted, but fortunately didn't seem offended. “We will go slowly, and I promise to please you to the best of my considerable abilities.”

 

“Alright, I trust you.” He said it so easily Zevran's heart skipped a beat, but it was easy to dismiss inconvenient thoughts in this little pocket of unreality, with Alim's hand in his. His fingers danced up the mage's wrist absently and Alim shivered. “I meant, um, more specifically. I do have a general understanding of the mechanics, honest. And there are a few... options.”

 

“Ah.” He looked nervous to Zevran. “There is no need to drop you straight off the docks just to learn to swim.” If he was careful and lucky he might have many nights to spend inducting Alim into various pleasures. No need to rush. It was just politic to shower Alim with gentle attentions. “We will play by ear, I think, but you can expect to leave penetration off the table for now.”

 

Alim nodded, just a touch of relief in his eyes, and kissed him again. Zevran slowly began to push and explore, finding Alim meeting him every step. Parting his lips, teasing tongues, just a hint of a nip. A lack of preconceived notions might be a blessing.

 

“You may have to help me get those robes off you.” He expected to have to coax, but Alim leaned forward cooperatively, showing him a line of hooks hidden by the folds and his hair. He looked conscious and flustered, but not reluctant.

 

Unfortunately, it was impossible to make the removal of frumpy mage robes into something sexy. Maybe it was simply his Antivan training. The warmer climate back home meant very different things for fashion. Perhaps Fereldans found it deeply erotic to wrestle their lovers out of layers of wool and fur? The confined space of the tent contributed to the general clumsy ineptitude of the whole thing, forcing Alim to wriggle in a not at all seductive manner to get the hem clear. Fortunately, he was a good sport about it. Zevran appreciated a lover who could laugh. And kiss, and hold hands. There were so many who seemed to think sex for fun had to be sex between strangers, with no kindness or playing. He understood, but he liked this better.

 

And he liked a naked Alim a lot, of course. He was a bit undergrown, yes, but there was something to be said for a trim figure. One reason Zevran generally preferred women was that he didn't enjoy feeling small with his partners. And all that smooth, dark skin just begged to be touched. He ran the backs of his fingers down Alim's blushing cheek and smiled. “Gold would suit you better than that silver you're wearing, you know.”

 

“It's--”

 

“Traditional? Functional? Required by the chantry that mages dress to maximum disadvantage?”

 

“I was going to say 'your turn to be naked,' actually.”

 

“Ah.” He was pleasantly surprised. “I expected you to be shier, I confess. Where were you hiding your wantonness, little flower?”

 

“People are complicated. Making you like me... very complicated. I don't think sex is, really.” He ran a hand through his hair and smiled sheepishly, stealing Zevran's breath away before he could reassure Alim that it didn't seem to have been difficult at all. “I still don't know what I'm doing, though.”

 

“Maker, you are almost too sweet.” He felt the danger of getting too close, too attached, letting a little smile and a pair of bright eyes really enchant him, but worries were for later. Sometime when he wasn't very nearly overset by lust. “It's quite ridiculous. Stop it.”

 

“Can't make me.” Alim leaned in for a kiss and pulled Zevran to him... Well, not roughly. With just a touch of force, and he clearly thought it was very bold and decisive. He amused himself by submitting to the kiss and letting Alim lead, seeing where this would go. He found himself shirtless quickly, Alim's fingers brushing deliciously against him as it was pulled free.

 

“Well, do you like what you see?” Zevran asked after a heartbeat or two went by and nothing happened.

 

Alim ran one finger down a winding line of tattoos on his bicep. “Quite a bit, yes,” he said, nodding primly. He leaned heavily on Zevran a moment later, winding him up in a clumsy, tight embrace, and kissed a burning, wet line down his neck. Zevran breathed in hard and slid his fingers up Alim's jaw and cheek into his hair, nails digging in the slightest bit before catching around his silly little braid and holding him still. With deliberate, wicked slowness, Zevran ran his tongue from Alim's earlobe to the very tip and followed the salacious lick with a firm nip at the perfect little point. Alim let out a musical, gasping cry that only made him wilder. Pretense, abandoned. Mutual hunger took over.

 

Alim slid one hand slowly down his side, moving with no further hesitation to strip him down completely. Zevran moved to assist and pulled Alim into his lap the moment he could. There might be no artistry in it, but he'd get to that in a moment. He just wanted to soak in heat and contact, run his hands over smooth skin, feel Alim's pounding heart and the lovely slickness of sweat. The way the mage squirmed and moaned in his grasp, the lovely friction between them... Maker, he had to get his head on straight. He might as well be the fumbling virgin here.

 

He pressed his nose into Alim's hair and breathed deep, calming a little, and rested his hand on the smaller elf's chest. “Careful, now, we don't want it over too fast.”

 

“Y-you put me here,” Alim said, and wriggled in Zevran's lap for emphasis, drawing a low moan from him. “Doesn't quality count as well as quantity?”

 

“Perhaps you have me there. Still, I'd have your first little experiment be something worth remembering.” His fingers wandered over Alim's belly and slid down to his thigh. He squeezed and Alim squirmed, and then his hand was covered by a darker one, rough, searching nails sliding up his arm. He could tell the kid was imitating him, but the initiative was nice to see, especially when he abruptly twisted and wrapped his arm around Zevran's neck, catching him in another devouring kiss.

 

“I'm having fun,” he protested.

 

“I believe you, but...” His hand slid to Alim's inner thigh and he enjoyed the squeaky response it got him. He didn't want to say anything sappy and words were hard to find right now. “A little something special is the least I can do, delicious as it is to have you there.” He felt his hips roll just the tiniest bit unbidden, as if in emphasis.

 

“By which you mean... get off?”

 

“Yes, but you won't mind.” Alim was a good sport about not pointing out a second time that it was Zevran's overexcited miscalculation that had put them here, and he scooted onto the floor of the tent. Zevran smiled and pushed him gently onto his back with a long kiss on the neck, soothing him on his way. Despite all the evidence of the mage's enthusiasm, things could change quickly. Even more quickly for a flighty virgin who no doubt wouldn't be near his bed without the prospect of imminent death and the end of the world.

 

He suspected simple would be best. Alim wasn't ready for the sorts of games he could think of a dozen ways to improvise with rope and tent stakes and leather bits of armory all in ready supply, he wasn't particularly flexible, and in the small space and more or less surrounded by some of the strangest people they'd ever met, creativity might not be rewarded. No, he knew how to give simple pleasure, and a great deal of it.

 

Not his favorite activity, perhaps, but worth it to please Alim. Win him back for more nights. And maybe just to both enjoy themselves. Sometimes his thinking was so transactional he annoyed even himself. Zevran began to kiss his way lower, taking his sweet time. Neck, the curve of muscle that joined it to the shoulder (a little biting there, because he only had so much willpower, and he loved it when Alim squeaked), collarbone. He stopped to kiss a puckered dagger scar that must have been left by darkspawn before they ever crossed paths, enjoying Alim's softer sigh. Then teasing kisses down his chest, and sucking gently at a nipple.

 

He didn't mean to spend so long on that, but Alim made the most delightful noise, and the hand that had just been stroking his hair wound up painfully tight in it. He didn't intend to bring up that he liked hair-pulling quite this early, but he could enjoy a hint. Zevran licked slowly, making Alim jump and then shiver, and looked up at him through a curtain of tossed-about hair. “Yes?”

 

“Yes! Mm, don't stop, you're mean...”

 

“I am, am I?”

 

“I might like mean.” Alim smiled in a manner he clearly thought was seductive. “Come back up here?”

 

“Hm. No. Busy.” And he began to slide down again, lips and tongue dancing over slick skin. He felt Alim tense and suspected the virgin's sensibilities had just caught up. There were certainly no more objections, anyway. He diverted course a little and kissed over to a very bony hip, nibbling at the curve, nuzzling the little hollow it made. Very aware of Alim's fingers on his scalp, still holding on a little tight, he moved closer, kissing his inner thigh, absorbing the other elf's groan as his hair brushed more sensitive skin.

 

He was stalling more than teasing, perhaps. When that realization hit he forced himself to relax. Alim was not only a strangely gentle soul with his friends but half the size of, say, Tali. Most of the men he'd been with had been humans, and given all his proclivities, rough as well. He liked rough, but the way the road had been treating them of late, he didn't need that right now.

 

Without hesitating any longer, he slid the head of Alim's cock between his lips. The sound he drew from the mage was absolutely lovely, a low, soft note at the bottom of his voice, a growl around the edges. His hips bucked and Zevran grunted softly as he tipped his head a little.

 

“Sorry, did I...”  
  


Had he ever been apologized to? What a novelty. “No harm done.” Zevran stroked his hip reassuringly and popped Alim back into his mouth, sucking gently and beginning to explore the shaft a bit with his tongue. He could already tell this wouldn't be a lot of work. In a moment he had Alim moaning loud enough to annoy the whole damn camp and possibly attract lurking darkspawn. He hoped whoever was on watch could manage them.

 

He almost stopped to tease him again, but he was caught up enough in the moment to decide he was too lazy and lose himself in the smooth motions he made with very practiced ease. His head bobbed rhythmically, and a few heartbeats later Alim's fingers tightened almost too painfully in his hair. “Zev!” Appreciating the warning, he half sat up and switched to his hand, finishing Alim with a few quick strokes. He loved watching someone uninhibited. For himself, he kept his responses muted, forced by circumstances to try to learn to stay quiet and calm, but this was much prettier, watching him shudder and gasp.

 

When Alim slumped bonelessly and his eyes slid closed, Zevran was prepared to accept it. Disappointed, but he had teased a virgin mercilessly first. If he was going to be particular about his own pleasures, he'd chosen poorly. But Alim only breathed deep a few times before he sat up, shaking his head and blinking blearily. He kissed Zevran, slowed down without desperation, but plenty of passion. It might have been his favorite kiss of the night so far, especially coming after what it did. It apparently hadn't occurred to Alim to object to the slight taste of himself.

 

“You next?” he asked shakily, meeting Zevran's eyes with a dazed smile.

 

“Ah.” He was a little surprised. “If you feel inclined, I suppose. This is your first...” He'd never had a male lover make the offer, and very few women, come to think. He was inclined to think the act more of a chore than anything.

 

“I want to.” Alim kissed him dreamily and, as Zevran didn't see any reason to tell him _no_ , he began once again to try to mimic the Crow, mouthing playfully at Zevran's throat on his way down. He hardly needed to tease, but Maker, it was sweet that he did. Zevran groaned and let his eyes close, surrendering.

 

He was a very bad assassin.

 

Zevran held himself half upright, planting one palm behind him, and rested the other hand lightly on the back of Alim's head as he quickly worked his way down, lapping kittenishly and more or less at random. Were he less aroused, Zevran would have found it ridiculous, but at the moment, the mage would have to work very hard to do something wrong.

 

He didn't work up to it much, slipping Zevran's cock between his lips and trying immediately to go too deep. Zevran felt him stop and regret it and muttered something like, “Careful,” hoping very much Alim wouldn't think better of it. He recovered, thankfully.

 

Enthusiasm more than made up for a lock of technique. He sucked hard and his soft, clever tongue teased, head bobbing shallowly. It was lovely to watch. Zevran had just enough presence of mind to get a kick out of seeing the young, pretty elf work so hard to please him. No saint, he.

 

When he felt the heat coiled in his core begin to spike, he tugged Alim's hair gently. “Sweetling...” Alim looked up at him through beautifully tousled hair, but didn't let up a bit. Zevran suspected he didn't know what he was getting into, but didn't have it in him to protest. He tried to stay still when he climaxed, but he couldn't quite help the jerky roll of his hips in the last few moments.

 

Alim squeaked a bit, but didn't seem to mind. As Zevran collapsed into the bedroll, breathing hard, he sat up and quickly wiped his mouth. “I've... had dreams like that,” he said uncertainly, pushing hair out of Zevran's face.

 

Zevran lazily stretched a hand up toward him a few inches and beckoned him down. Alim obediently settled beside him. “Was I in them?”

 

“Well, recent ones, I guess.” Alim yawned and wrapped an arm around him. Soon it would be uncomfortable and claustrophobic (though at least the local chill kept it from being too hot together in such a small space), but for now, it was lovely.

 

“You're a wicked little thing, it turns out,” he observed sleepily, snuggling back.

 

“Who knew?”

 

“Repression. It's terrible.” Zevran was out of energy to talk, and let himself drift with his endearing mage coiled around him. It wasn't until he was nearly asleep that he rolled out of Alim's grasp and curled up on his side.

 


	7. Who do you think you're kiddin'? He's the earth and heaven to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stump the bard is definitely a game they have in Thedas.

Zevran woke to a shifting beside him and resigned himself to Alim sneaking off. Not everyone liked sharing space. Pity, it made the chances of more amusement in the morning rather slim. He told himself firmly that that was the only thing he minded.

 

Then his mind crawled a little closer to wakefulness and he realized he was smelling fresh air, and Alim settled against his back with a little sigh, dressed again. Coming _back_ from second watch? Maker. He chastised himself mildly for not noticing when the warden left. He didn't uncurl, but he drank in that perfectly artless cuddling.

 

Maker, what would he be like if no one had taught him caution and cruelty? Not the right thoughts to dwell on in the middle of the night.

 

The road between Orzammar and the somewhat elusive Dalish was a wondrous one. There were, admittedly, bandits, annoying merchants, strange magical manifestations, and enough Darkspawn to blunt all their weapons and wear out even the mighty mabari. This was to be expected. But there was also actual sunlight once in a while, and while the Fereldan lowlands were muddy, it was a nice change from bare rock and ice. The company was good, if largely for annoying in service to his own amusement. Through careful conspiracy, he and Leliana managed to interfere with the Fereldan cooking every few nights, and while one could not expect blood from a stone, sometimes one could prevent the production of yet another stringy game slurry for the evening meal.

 

And there was Alim. He was insatiable, in Zevran's tent every night, a quick, able learner and fairly adventurous, all things considered. The Crow had heard boasts of virgins turned ravenous once the floodgates were opened, but never seen it himself. Even if he had to give most of the credit to the constant and unrelenting threat of messy death, it was very diverting. Zevran was a bit worried he'd grow tired of the game before the mage did. He'd never held a steady lover very long. Old friends he came back to should their paths cross, but who had the stomach for an ongoing affair? He got bored with everyone.

 

Except Rinna.

 

Dreams had already drawn a parallel he had to work hard to forget, and Alim made familiar, unwelcome ideas emerge from the shallow grave in an unremarkable stretch of Antivan countryside where he thought he'd buried them forever. They were simple little thoughts, things he suspected people who hadn't been raised by whores and assassins would consider unremarkable. That deep, dark eyes were best unclouded by weariness and worry, that a man who fired lightening from his glowy stick definitely needed protecting, that Alim was simply something special, independent of a clever mouth and smooth skin.

 

Stupid, intrusive, distracting indulgences. It was just that Alim reminded him a bit of her, sometimes, full of strange enthusiasms, possessed of a fey, sensuous delight in every detail of the world around him, a bright spot in the dark...

 

This was not a helpful theory for reassuring himself that he wasn't letting his feelings slip away again. It was best to not be left alone with his own head. He was glad to return from gathering firewood, where he'd had only Fen for company. The dog was no conversationalist. It smelled like Alistair's cooking, unfortunately, but the whole party was collected around it. He was rather put out to have missed the beginning of whatever the fun was, dropping his armful of wood hurriedly to join the throng.

 

Morrigan, of all people, was the center of attention, and he realized with a start that she was _singing_. He only caught the end of whatever it was. “In the middle of the valley-o, green grows the lily-o, right among the bushes-o...” It wasn't a refined voice, but sweet enough, and she could carry the simple tune well enough to make it interesting.

 

“That's absolutely the worst song I've ever heard.” Alistair looked absolutely horrified. “Who... why would anybody write it?”

 

“I always thought it was rather pretty,” Morrigan said primly, clearly baiting him.

 

“The bits with the murder especially, I'm sure,” he huffed.

 

“When I heard it before,” Leliana said smoothly, “There was a last verse that revealed the traveler was Andraste, and she gave the woman a penance so she might repent her sins and come to the Maker.”

 

“'Tis a Chasind song.” Morrigan looked sour. “If some foolish missionary rewrote the ending, I contend that I have won.”

 

Strangely enough, it was Sten who spoke up. “The terms of your wager state that the winner must produce a song the bard does not know. She seems to know more of it than you.” Morrigan sniffed, but seemed to feel arguing was beneath her.

 

Zevran sat on a patch of unnaturally warm, dry ground beside Alim, taking advantage of the mage's shameless abuse of magic. “We're playing stump the bard?”

 

“No luck so far. Know any Antivan songs?”

 

“I only know them in Antivan.” And since, in his experience, half the point of this game was watching the hapless among them try to perform, there'd be no fun in a song no one else understood.

 

“I got one!” Oghren volunteered. “It goes, uh, forget the first verse. But the bit in the middle goes, here's to a long life and a merry one! Here's to pretty girls and an honest one! Here's to a good death and an easy one! Here's to a cold pint and another one!” He chanted the few lines more than sang them and looked pleased with himself.

 

“That song pops up in every tavern on the continent,” Leliana said, rolling her eyes, but only a little.

 

“What? No! That's an old dwarven standby.”

 

“Then the merchants must have leaked it to the surface,” Alistair said with a shrug. “Even I knew that one.”

 

“Will you sing for us, Wynne?” Leliana asked politely.

 

“Oh, I'd rather not. I don't have the lungs I once did.” Zevran doubted this claim, but who was going to argue with the stately lady?

 

“Alistair's actually not bad, but he doesn't know anything unusual,” Alim whispered to Zevran. “Chantry upbringing, I guess. Morrigan only admits to knowing murder ballads, which would be fine if Leliana didn't know them all, too. Sten and Wynne won't play, and Oghren can't remember more than half a verse of anything. You might have to save us.”

 

“My lovely, I am known as a Crow for more reasons than one. The dog might do a better job pleasing the company. Why have you not offered your services?”

 

“I don't know many songs.” He shrugged. “Mages get some vocal training, for certain rituals, but it doesn't translate well.”

 

“Nonsense. Alim's next!” Zevran caught his wrist and raised it in the air.

 

Alim glared at him, blushing a bit. “Any song that's been around long enough to be in a book in the Tower of Mages is going to be in every minstrel's repertoire.”

 

“It could have fallen out of fashion, or you might wind up like Morrigan, and know another version of a song I have heard,” Leliana contended.

 

“And if Morrigan didn't win, I wouldn't win.” Zevran wondered idly if there was a prize or if his companions contended for honor alone. “Fine.” Alim didn't exactly rise to the occasion. It was less like singing, more a matter of semi-rhythmic mumbling that would have better suited an elderly, small-town chanter. But the poem was interesting enough, a rousing tale of a young lady who recaptured her lover from ill-defined fade creatures who had stolen him away.

 

It was new to Zevran, if not the locals, and an excellent distraction from his busy thoughts. He might have paid special attention to Alim's eyes and smile when he got to the bit at the end where the triumphant pair ran into the night and love triumphed, but that was simply to enjoy that extra animation. He ignored the argument that ensued when Leliana admitted she knew the story, but hadn't heard it in verse form, and then one over whether a poem counted if Alim remembered it having music to accompany in the book, but had no idea what it had been.*

 

Andraste's Smallclothes, what strange people. He had joked with companions under fell circumstances as a Crow, taken his pleasures and amused himself in general, but it was nothing like this. When everyone was a replaceable, purchaseable piece in the game, not to mention a cold killer trained from childhood, there were walls up. Here he could see lines of fondness or rivalry, muted dislike or playful teasing, all sketched out in the smoke above the fire.

 

Alim set a bowl of what was apparently meant to be rabbit stew in his hands. He made a face. “I find it highly unreasonable that Antiva is considered uniquely brutal when you Fereldans do such things to poor, innocent foodstuffs.”

 

“It's how we really drove out the Orlesians,” Alistair volunteered, eating his with shameless gusto.

 

“Then we should have kept their chefs as the spoils of war,” Alim sniffed. “What did this start life as?”

 

“Wild carrots.” Alistair held out a shapeless blob at the end of his spoon. “At the Chantry, they told us it was most wholesome and virtuous to eat everything boiled beyond all hope of texture.”

 

“They were probably trying to make your lyrium taste better by comparison.” Alim took a thoughtful bite. “These are, if anything, the tortured, fade-touched shades of wild carrots.”

 

Zevran smirked at them. “Truly, a Fereldan epicurian? Yours is a tragic lot.” Stalling as he tried to gather the courage to eat his own dinner, he hooked an arm around Alim's waist. “What do you know of real food? Or is it all your magey dreams at work?”

 

“Mostly dreams,” he conceded. “But my family came from Tevinter and traveled through Orlais to get here. We couldn't usually afford it, but once in a blue moon, my mother would see some real spice at the market. Even then it was only scrapings, little crumbs that had gotten wet or dusty usually, but she'd make us a tiny second meal so we could really taste it all.”

 

Zevran's first thought was that that was deeply pathetic, but it was hard to push the idea away. He knew nothing of a mother's affection, for all the whores had been kind to him when they had the time, and it seemed as unreasonable for him to be jealous as for the Fereldan alienage boy to dream of foreign feasts. “What did she cook with?” he asked to distract himself.

 

“Peppers were the best.” He smiled dreamily. “Like summer and sweet fire...”

 

“You really ate them?” Leliana looked impressed. “The little black pods, or the red ones that look like dried vegetables?”

 

“The red ones. They were best, and usually the cheapest. I guess most Fereldans didn't like the burning part of the experience.”

 

Zevran pulled him in and tipped back his chin a bit to kiss him. “I really must bring you to Antiva,” he said softly.

 

“Aren't those Crows gonna kill the both of you?” Oghren asked, sounding only mildly interested and looking determinedly into the middle distance.

 

“Ah, but we'll eat first, and die happy.” He winked over his shoulder at the dwarf. “A thousand varieties of peppers, and a host of other spices, some from beyond the sea itself, the captains say. The merchant princes are so very determined to outdo each other, you see. Coffee dark enough to match those bewitching eyes of yours. The soft, phantom sweetness of red tea, gentle green, biting black. The infinite ecstasies of chocolate, proof to some philosophers that the Maker still intervenes in mortal affairs...”

 

“Does this seem indecent to anyone else?” Alistair asked absently.

 

Suddenly self-conscious, Zevran rushed on. “Rosewater and vanilla, pastry as fine as the pages of one of your old tomes...”

 

“Could you go into more detail about this chocolate?” Alim looked perfectly sincere and was blushing a little, eyes wide. Zevran had expected to be teased back. He froze for a moment, imagining lighter eyes locked on his the same way.

 

“We've taken a vote, and if you're going to do this, you go to your tent,” Alistair announced. Zevran could have kissed him for it. Not that that would have been a particularly unpleasant experience at any time, but he needed to snap out of it. He turned his slightly stunned expression into a grin and dragged Alim up. “Come, I'll tell you indecent things about cheesecake next.”

 

“Damn the blight and the Crows. Let's start for Antiva in the morning,” he agreed with a giggle, scrambling behind Zevran. They barely made it into the tent before Alim's hands were tangled in his hair and they hit the ground laughing around kisses that burned as bright as the mage's beloved peppers.

 

It didn't have to be about Rinna, he told himself, or all the dangers of love and pain that she represented. It was just that in laying with Alim, all the fear was on the outside, hemming them in, and that left room for a giddy joy that was usually denied him. There was always pleasure in rutting, but it was so laden down with caution and reserve the rest of the time.

 

That was certainly it.

 

Alim lay beside him the next night, and the next, and the one after that. He was sure he'd be bored, oh, very soon. But they would be among the Dalish soon, and he suspected he and Alim both might need a warm body to curl beside for that. The younger elf swung between being subdued and worried and brightly optimistic. He was sure they'd explain more of the ancient Elvish language to him. He didn't want to talk about it. They would have answers to questions that had plagued him all his life. He was only going in his capacity as Grey Warden. Everything it meant to really be an elf was waiting in those woods. There was no point in trying when you'd already been born under the auspices of human rule.

 

Coming in from his watch, Zevran found him half awake and staring into the darkness, and he found himself, not for the first time, sharing more with Alim than he'd meant to, speaking not only of his slight, ill-favored encounter with the Dalish, but his mother, her short life and ugly death, his silly little remembrance of her, long lost. He got such a look from Alim that he knew he'd gone too far. He didn't want pity, or whatever weighty thing the younger man clearly was about to say, and he dismissed the whole thing as quickly as he could, adding, “My point is, they are likely to call you a few names they otherwise reserve for humans, and be rude, but they will tell you what you wish to know, most likely. Everyone likes to talk about themselves, and the entire point of being Dalish is the preservation of that knowledge.”

 

“Alright, well, good, but Zev--”

 

Zevran shrugged, looking cavalier as he could. “We are speaking of the Dalish, not me.”

 

“You started it, and...” Zevran's look quelled him, and Alim sighed. It had the appearance of a retreat, not a surrender. Damnation. “Fine. They do take in city elves, though, don't they? I've heard of people running away.”

 

“Sometimes. Are you thinking of fleeing the Wardens to them, should you survive?” Interesting. And not about his own sordid life, so Zevran was determined to pursue the point. “They have gods who might disappoint you less than the Maker.” He wasn't sure why he'd be more comfortable with Alim choosing the strange, eerie myths the Dalish preserved over the current nothing he believed in, but he'd prefer it.

 

“I'll ask about that, but honestly.” He frowned. “Keep a secret? Well, not much of a secret. Alistair and Wynne know.”

 

“A third part of a secret. Yes, I believe I can.”

 

“I have a sister. I haven't seen her since she was toddling about trying to figure out sentences and how not to eat dirt. There's a good chance she's dead, or gone, or even married.” Alim wrinkled his nose, and Zevran quickly calculated she'd be quite young for that. But for an orphaned child with a mage in the family, it might be worth it to accept even dubious protection of the kind. Best not to think about it too hard. Some alienages had a reputation for looking out for their own. Some decidedly did not. “But I've been hoping to do _something_ for her.”

 

“And sending her to live with endlessly hunted nomads who will call her flatears strikes you as a good plan?” Zevran raised an invisible eyebrow critically. His fair hair really cut into the effectiveness of that particular expression.

 

“Can you think of a better solution? I could afford to dower her better than most now, or help her to a good apprenticeship or a shop, but that doesn't change that she is kin to a wanted man.” Alim kissed him suddenly, an odd little peck on the cheek. Sweet. “You may be awful at your job, but that colossal ass Loghain may stumble into more ruthless help, and he already killed his best friend's son, apparently. The Circle would have records of my family, and who'd stop an almost-king from targeting an elf?”

 

Zevran had to admit to the wisdom of this, and didn't even complain about the good-natured jeering at his skill. “I could assassinate him for you.”

 

Alim frowned. “I suggested that when we first met and you said you wouldn't.”

 

“I like you better now, perhaps.” Though he was a little disquieted to realize he'd just been about to throw away the last of his Crow's honor to please Alim for a few moments. And didn't regret it a bit.

 

“I should hope you do, given where your hand is.” He shrugged. Zevran was a little surprised. He hadn't realized quite how coiled around Alim he was. He shifted a little. “I didn't say stop. I'll think about it, but getting rid of Loghain is Alistair's bugbear. I just want to secure Nelia some sort of future. Maybe when we're next in Denerim.”

 

“Wise. In the meantime, we steel ourselves to meet the Dalish.”

 

“Maybe we could ask them about--” Zevran cut him off with a finger pressed to his lips. Alim rolled his eyes and nipped playfully at him. It turned into wrestling, which predictably became sex. Alim was especially attentive and gentle, which Zevran found much easier to accept than verbal sympathy. The kid was a little sentimental, wasn't he?

 

Alim pulled a blanket over both of them. There was a bite in the air tonight, but it probably wasn't necessary to cuddle as close as he did. “I'm off tonight. Which watch do you have?” They'd both stopped getting first watch lately. Interrupted sleep was a small price to pay, and they apparently annoyed everyone else least when they fell to it after dinner.

 

“Third. We have time to rest.” Since he seemed to like snuggling. Silly. Zevran settled in behind him, feeling an odd compulsion to comfort _him_. He might not want pity, but he understood why it would be offered. Why would he feel the need to comfort Alim? The Maker knew he'd had a hard life of his own, and it couldn't be that hearing about Zevran's sad little childhood was going to break him.

 

The urge to spare him mild discomfort was just getting ridiculous. In his own way, Alim was made of sterner stuff than he was. Ridiculous.

 

He sounded half awake already when he spoke. “If you like I can put you to sleep by magic...”

 

“I will take my chances without enchantment. Goodnight, _mi Amor_.” He'd closed his eyes and settled in before he realized what he'd said.

 

*Morrigan's song is a Fereldan-ized "The Well Below the Valley" (which is exactly as gory and icky as Alistair would have you believe) and Alim's an equally lore-adjusted Tam Lin. Oghren's is a commonly sung drinking toast, possibly from Ireland. And because I forgot to footnote it a few chapters back, the story Alim told Zevran in the Deep Roads was "The Enchanted Quill," a Bavarian folktale collected by Franz Xaver Von Schonwerth. Broaden your horizons though smutty fanfiction!

 


	8. Real Dalish Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran is surly but at least they met a talking tree.

He lay awake until Oghren threw a pinecone at the tent to wake him up. But he thought his slip had, at least, one unnoticed. Alim's curiosity was insatiable, and he was often heard about the camp bothering Leliana for details about Orlesian embroidery or Sten for Qunari narrative poetry. He'd deduced Zevran's little weakness for hair pulling by the second night. He'd have asked for a translation if he had any memory at all that something had been said.

 

Safe in one respect, anyway. The Dalish camp the next morning was almost a relief. At least enduring the judgment and hostility kept him busy. The memories it brought back were most unwelcome, and he was sure he and Alim got worse than the others, being traitors as well as outsiders. They were really surprisingly calm about the presence of Grey Wardens. Lacking lands to protect, he couldn't help feeling they would do better to just get ahead of the blight.

 

Until they also turned out to have elaborate problems that required the help of a handful of scruffy passers-by, of course. Werewolves. Why wouldn't it be werewolves? Why would anything ever just happen the way they'd planned?

 

The next few hours were spent in collecting information, resupplying, and repairs. Alim couldn't be torn from the storyteller without brute force, to all appearances, despite the sharp-edged distaste the man showered him with. Zevran ran out of patience quickly (and was beginning to feel like he'd better put some space between himself and his Warden), and slipped off to wander with Fen, asking the less aggressive looking hunters about werewolves whenever he felt too useless. The dog wasn't popular in the camp at the moment, but Zevran didn't blame them for that. As he didn't blame them for an aversion to humans, under the circumstances. Alim's family, after all, had never even had a chance to become Dalish, stuck in the Imperium despite all Andraste could do, like so many others. Perhaps he could accept his own ancestral guilt, since he didn't care what they thought of him anyway, and he persisted in not caring much what happened to elvishness as an ideal, but...

 

But he wanted them to be fair to the short mage with the terrible fashion sense.

 

Sulky and annoyed, he attempted to join Morrigan and Sten in hanging about on the outskirts of the camp and not talking to anybody, but so many passers-by stopped to gawk at the Qunari, the wardog, and the witch in the silly outfit (and shoot condescending frowns at him) that it wasn't very relaxing. He was more relieved than anything else to strike out into the forest.

 

Reactions were decidedly mixed. Zevran listened to several arguments about whether it was beautiful or spooky before he gave up his attempt to stop dancing attendance on Alim like a lovesick puppy and found himself at his side again. He was muttering to himself. Zevran let him go on a moment before he had to ask. “Well?”

 

“Hmm? Oh, trying to get the pronunciation right. I'm usually pretty fair with languages, but the rise and fall keeps tripping me up. Mel _a_ va inan enansal, ir su _a_ raval tu elvaral... No, it's ar _a_ val. I can't do it.”

 

Zevran, who had never been able to get more than a few words of the rhythmic language into his head, patted his shoulder reassuringly. “No need to worry. Your myriad talents are more than a match for a pointless exercise in futile self-aggrandizement.”

 

Alim caught his hand. “You're really not happy here, are you? I--”

 

Whatever he'd been about to say (Zevran was glad he didn't finish) was cut off by wolves, and the forest's great determination to kill them kept him from trying to be sappy again. He actually was more or less happy while they fought their way through werewolves and stray darkspawn, and fairly amused by the talking tree that Alim decided to befriend, surprising no one.

 

He was a little disquieted by the pleading of the woman halfway through her transformation to beast, however, and simply put off by the mad old man that, once again, Alim decided to placate by chattering. Maybe he simply had the requisite experience for mad old mages. Zevran ignored most of their conversation, only noting the rise and fall of only slightly loopier than usual mage conversation about books and faraway lands.

 

He even wandered off a little ways, gazing absently at the nearest ruins and watching for an ambush, He still caught the rambling old man asking, “Have you ever been in love?” With a speed he'd have been proud of in the field, he “accidentally” knocked into a bush and fell to disentangling his swords as noisily as he could manage. Whatever the answer to that question was, he couldn't bear to hear it.

 

Zevran scowled a little too much when Morrigan teased him for being ambushed by a plant as he joined them again. Was Alim blushing a little? Was Leliana glaring at him? He was probably imagining things.

 

“It's not long until sunset,” Alim declared as he pocketed the acorn he'd traded away from the mad old mage. “Let's head back to the clan for the night. We can give the tree his acorn back on the way.”

 

“You ever say things like that and think about how completely mad we all sound?” Alistair asked cheerfully.

 

“We're just very interesting people. The poor woman's husband is going to want that scarf, and I have a few questions for the Keeper.” He shrugged. “This isn't the Deep Roads. We're allowed to leave and sleep somewhere safe.”

 

“Safe-ish?” the templar suggested.

 

“Relatively safe-ish. Besides, I'm invited to dinner tonight.” They began walking. To his friend's confused inquiries, Alim went on. “I'm not entirely sure how it happened, but while I was bothering the storyteller for more poems to memorize, I think I arranged a marriage.”

 

“You did what?” It couldn't mean what it sounded like it meant, and Zevran carefully ignored the strange spike of horrified anger that coursed through him. It was enough to startle him back into talking, though. He didn't think the Dalish even did that. In an alienage, it would be possible (if a little crass), and Alim had once lamented a lack of prospects, but still, silly idea.

 

Alim looked back at him a bit curiously. Maybe that had come out sharper than he wanted. “Well, for the most part I told the two of them to stop being stupid. There are elaborate rules about these things, but apparently if the pesky flatears mage says it's silly to hold off because of a technicality, they'll believe him.” He shrugged eloquently as Zevran felt his heart unfreeze, and then the full weight of his idiotic leap to conclusions hit him. “Cammen's family has been wanting to see him wed, and so, dinner.”

 

“Is this what you do when we're not about? Alim Surana, matchmaker?” Morrigan was clearly a bit disgusted, but Alim accepted her teasing with good grace. And they were beset again by wolves and clever demonic traps soon enough, ending the conversation for the most part.

 

As reports were made and minor injuries bandaged, Zevran continued to make himself scarce. The Dalish had offered reasonable enough access to their supplies and equipment, and things always needed sharpening. It was tiring, loud, dusty work, but he'd been doing it most of his life. It was almost meditative, putting the edge back on his blades. He leaned back to admire his work, debating whether it was late enough to set up his tent and get this day over with.

 

“Move aside if you're done,” Leliana said from behind him. He bowed as he ceded the wheel, and she snorted, looking over at him rather than just getting on with it. “You thought for a second he was getting married.”

 

“Silly of me, but it is possible. I'm not sure how much Dalish traditions line up with the ones I know, but he's old enough, with no living parent to negotiate for him. He wouldn't be a bad match. What?” She could give very penetrating looks.

 

“It's actually plausible?” Liliana looked incredulous.

 

“Could be.” He shrugged. “Most elven marriages are arranged. Given the straits the clan is in and the life expectancy of a Grey Warden, anyone who was interested would be wise to get things done quickly. Indelicate, perhaps, but they'd want the magic as well as the fresh blood. A child might be worth the trouble to a lady.”

 

“Perhaps you weren't being quite as silly as I thought. Still, Alim?” She snorted. “You think he'd want to get married?”

 

“Yes, actually.” That was a hard realization. Alim was gentle and romantic. His greatest desire in life was for a cat. He was fond of children. He should have someone to love, or at least to take care of, forever. He was already learning the language here, and they'd value his power the way the outside world did not. He'd be a good Dalish. When this was over, he could find his lost little sister and run off with them, and it would be the perfect ending for him. An ending that happened to have no room for a used up Crow who'd already proven he wasn't his mother's son in any way that mattered.

 

Leliana was looking at him silently, and Zevran realized he'd been quiet too long. He coughed consciously. “He'd be good at it.”

 

“He doesn't even want to bed a woman.” And perhaps she sounded the tiniest bit bitter.

 

“Not that I know anything about marriage, but I don't think that would be necessary, as long as he could manage a few children. Arrangements can be made.” And he wasn't going to think about following a married Alim as barely-tolerated lover, because that was stupid for so many reasons.

 

“Fine. But I think his heart is pretty well engaged.” Zevran didn't answer her, thought she waited for most of a minute before she gave up and pulled out a dagger for sharpening. He stalked off instead. Interfering woman. Her own fondness for the kid must be overpowering her senses.

 

It was full dark when he reached the little circle they'd staked out for their tents. Wynne was reading by the fire and Oghren had found whatever it was the Dalish drank for fun. The others were still scattered around. Just as well. He had his tent most of the way up when the dog gamboled up and shoved his nose into Zevran's face. He was crouched a little too awkwardly and tumbled down on his side, normally a mild inconvenience at most, but at the moment it made him want to snap at the poor beast. He was in no mood for company.

 

“There you are.” Alim sounded uncharacteristically timid. With only the firelight and a half moon through the heavy trees to see him by, it was hard to make anything out clearly, but he was standing back and looking small. “Um. You're invited to dinner.”

 

It was so distinctly not what Zevran had expected that he was silent for a bit too long, and finally said only, “Isn't it a bit late?”

 

“Festivities for after the useful daylight's gone, I guess. You don't have to. I know you don't like it here. But they did tell me to bring you.”

 

He was suspicious, but he had no idea what of. “Just me?”

 

“Elves only, I guess. That is, I didn't know the word they used, and bothering a nice old lady to translate everything for me isn't the same as pestering the storyteller, but I did get her to clarify.”

 

He considered staying right where he was for a moment, sighed, and nodded. “Why not? They might be better cooks than your friends.”

 

Alim held out both hands to help him up. “Oh, you don't like my cooking, either.”

 

“But you try, at least. There is potential.” He hauled himself up and Alim pulled him in for a long hug. “Did you confront the keeper with your suspicions?”

 

“You know me. I love confronting things. Zathrien's definitely hiding something.” He began to lead their way through the camp. “As to what, exactly, I don't know yet. Something about the curse, and the magic he's asked us to help with. I'll be proceeding with caution. I don't think anyone else knows what's going on, though. He seems secretive.”

 

This was nice. Just turning things over together, watching Alim's attempts at deviousness. Since this had to do with magic, he seemed to have a better handle on it than usual. He wasn't really cut out for intrigue as a rule. His theories—that blood magic might be necessary for the ritual, that it wouldn't cure anything but was some other mysterious purpose, that the Keeper could heal the already extant werewolves too if he wished it—all sounded reasonable enough to him. He just nodded along for the most part.

 

The dinner was very strange. The nervous young man Alim had apparently championed in romance was mostly silent, looking embarrassed about everything, and his mother and father were polite but clearly didn't know what to say to the outsiders after gratitude had been gone over. And neither Alim nor Zevran had ever studied the art of polite conversation much.

 

The solution turned out to be a sort of harsh, sweet wine, pleasant in its own way, and magic tricks. Alim called them cantrips, training exercises for young mages that they turned into games. Zevran had seen a few of them before, the little fairy lights he sometimes used to illuminate the tent, small illusions, adaptations of the spells he used in fights turned into small, pretty things. Maker, it was strange to see magic used as a toy, but it was fun, too.

 

“You'd be a Keeper's first by now if you'd grown up among the people,” Cammen's mother said with what seemed like more than polite enthusiasm. Her name was... Elyria? It might have been Elyria. He hadn't been paying much attention. “You're sure you weren't born to a clan?”

 

“Absolutely.” He hadn't told them anything specific about his origins. “I was young when I was taken, but not that young.”

 

“I've heard of Dalish traveling in the cities claiming to be otherwise. For safety's sake.”

 

He looked annoyed at the suggestion that his mother might have lied to him. “Mamae had no Vallaslin. She came from the old Imperium. No Dalish. Now Zevran...” He caught himself before Zevran had to smack him.

 

Sensing awkwardness, Cammen picked up the thread before it fell. “You're pronouncing that strangely.”

 

He seized on it. “Am I? How do you say it?” He obliged. Zevran couldn't hear much difference. “That's strange. I didn't even know Mamae was Elvish. It's what I always called her.”

 

“If she really never knew any Dalish, then it could have survived all the way from Arlathan!” This was clearly exciting, and distracted them, at least. Zevran stayed quiet, watching.

 

As they headed back to the tents, he a little unsteady from overdoing the wine and Alim looking entirely too perky, he couldn't help it. “You should join them, if you live through all of this.”

 

“You think so?” Alim caught his hand in the darkness. “They are interesting. But you're right. They're not fond of us. Do they have to be so shocked every time I know something, or just manage to be useful?”

 

“No, you'll be fine. You'll overpower them with your cleverness.” He squeezed Alim's fingers.

 

“And what'll you be doing?” The question was innocent on the surface, but Alim was watching him intently. In the low gleam of the dying fire, his night-dark eyes were brilliant and he wanted nothing more than to fall into them forever.

 

They were back in their own camp now, and it occurred to Zevran that he didn't have any idea. When Alim didn't need him anymore... Well, he suspected it would be back to striving after the death he deserved. Or maybe not. Maybe a world with Alim in it was a world worth trying to make a mark on. “Just now, going to bed, I think.”

 

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Have I done anything wrong? You've been...” He trailed off and Zevran groped helplessly for words to dismiss whatever this might turn into. “Oh, I have something for you.”

 

“You do?” Even when he was prickly and melancholy, Alim could excite him a little. It was always a surprise, anyway.

 

From his pack he produced a little cloth-wrapped bundle and watched with a shy smile as Zevran opened it to find beautifully embroidered Dalish gloves, uncannily like the ones he remembered. In a sort of daze he slipped one on, reverent and smooth. They were deliciously soft fur inside, which had been bedraggled and worn out in his mother's pair, and the needlework was new and shining. They fit perfectly, and as his hands were a little larger than Alim's, that would have taken either luck or some careful decision making. They were perfect. Alim was perfect. _Braska._

 

He hardly knew what he said as he thanked the mage profusely, his dark mood melting away for a few moments. He wasn't very surprised to find that he'd been led to Alim's tent, and he didn't have it in him to resist being pulled inside to the suddenly prettily illuminated space. He liked Alim's magic better when it was only on display for him, somehow.

 

They'd grown quite accustomed to sharing the tiny space, and Alim began to unbraid his hair, kneeling on the bedroll. “I know you hate when I try to talk about things, but is there something I should do differently?”

 

“No, no, sweetling. Being here brings back memories that are better left buried, is all. And at the moment I might be a little drunk.” He stroked Alim's cheek with the backs of his fingers and for a moment he thought that might do it. Alim always purred when he was petted, and he did close his eyes blissfully for a few seconds.

 

Then looked back up. “It's just being here that's the trouble?” He sounded incredulous.

 

“It's... A man is entitled to be moody once in a while.”

 

“Well, maybe I don't like it when you're upset, ma sa'lath.”

 

And he was already trying to speak Elvish. He slid an arm around Alim and pulled him close, breathing the smell of his hair and wondering how long it would be that he was allowed moments like this. “You know what sort of life I've led. Is it any wonder I can't keep my delightfully rakish countenance every moment? I'm sure I'll be fine tomorrow.”

 

“You can tell me if you like.”

 

There were so many things whirling in his head, and most of them he certainly couldn't tell Alim. Somehow, what slipped out was Rinna. What he'd once kept hidden solely because it hurt to speak of, because it was no one's damnation but his own. What he'd been concealing now because it made him so utterly unworthy of everything he'd been offered. And just how had he wound up with Alim holding him through the telling, stroking his hair and gently helping him along? He tried to leave when it was over, exhausted and miserable.

 

“Don't you dare run away from me right now.” Alim put a finger to his lips in a gesture he'd clearly learned from Zevran when he tried to protest. In the end, he put his head on the younger elf's lap and let the exhausting day, the wine, and the tears wash over him.

 

It wasn't a comfortable way to sleep. He woke up a few times, the first time to hurried whispers through the tent, then again to Alim murmuring to him and petting his hair. The language wasn't Dalish, but he didn't know it.

 

When he woke to sunlight streaming through the tent, his head was pillowed on Alim's stomach, and the other elf was sprawled in such a way as to make it very clear he'd fallen asleep trying and failing to hold onto him. Feeling every possible kind of foolish and rather disgusted with himself, Zevran crawled up to kiss him awake. He could tell himself whatever he wanted about what was and should be going on, but Alim deserved some doting on.

 

He grunted and his eyes fluttered. “I hate morning.”

 

“It's very kind to your complexion, though. I do adore those freckles.” He brushed his thumb over them. “I apologize for being stupid beyond all reason.”

 

“Apology accepted. Stupid.”

 


	9. The Relative Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kind of calm with werewolves and fraught romantic wonderings in it, but run with the Warden, take what you can get.

Gearing up to go back to the forest, it occurred to Zevran that he didn't think he'd ever spent a night with someone that hadn't involved sex. Working with Tali and Rinna, perhaps they'd fallen asleep and left it for morning after exhausting days, or had to cram into small spaces with no opportunity or energy for any fun, but a deliberate night of being held and only that... Well, interesting, in any case. And relaxing. Alim was going to wear him out.

 

He was a little more used to the dirt and strange light of the forest, and it seemed friendlier today, waving to the tree as they went by, beset by far fewer werewolves this time. Even Zevran, never known for academic curiosity, was rather intrigued by the ruins and their strange, muddled significance. Maybe Alim was rubbing off on him. Maybe he found an ancient and unknown elven history more appealing than one that scowled at him for being born within fifty yards of a human. Maybe he just appreciated the treasure and a nice, refreshing chance to take out his frustrations on a lot of reanimated corpses.

 

Alistair was right. They really were all a little insane.

 

He was even a little intrigued when Alim dragged everyone through the rubble a few extra times trying to complete an apparently harmless if somewhat peculiar ritual as instructed by the walls. Nothing popped out to eat them as a result, but it was an odd impulse for someone so adamantly irreligious. He didn't talk about it, but did seem to be smiling more than usual once he let the party move on.

 

Zathrien's duplicity surprised no one at this point. Zevran couldn't shake the idea that he would never be able to buy breakfast at a market again without expecting to be dispatched to fetch two magic flowers and kill a corrupted cow that would turn out to have secret knowledge of why those flowers would in fact destroy the economy of the nearest small town. The Lady of the Forest was a lovely woman, though.

 

That Alim talked his way into a mostly peaceful resolution was no surprise, though the old keeper did apparently feel the need to attack them for a while before he'd see reason. (Rather dangerously, Zevran realized, he was starting to let Alim's opinions feel like reason to him unless he was being particularly silly.)

 

He watched the newly restored humans take their leave, tired but feeling much better than he had the day before. Something about watching one of the most venerated Dalish learn a condescending lesson from an anthropomorphic tree and a nineteen year old city-bred elf really cheered him up.

 

Alim stepped up beside him and Zevran ruffled his hair fondly. “I think you have all your armies now. Well done, sweetest.”

 

“Hm? Oh, you're right. Could you hail Wynne? I want a better healer than me standing by when I pull this bit of tree out.” Zevran's gaze shot down to a languidly spreading bloodstain just above his hip.

 

“You probably should have said something earlier,” Zevran said, trying to mimic Alim's tone of disinterest. It couldn't be that dangerous. It looked bad, but there were several mages standing by, Wynne now coming to join them. No reason to worry about a flesh wound. That Alim in pain, Alim in danger set his teeth on edge he couldn't deny, but this was fixable. Wasn't it?

 

“Negotiations were delicate. I didn't want to interrupt and bleed all over everything.” He slumped against Zevran a little and had to be supported for a few minutes while Wynne got the shaft of wood free and closed the wound, clucking at him the whole time. Zevran went on pretending to be calm, even when it was confirmed that the injury was relatively slight. Alim rejected his mentor's fussing. He didn't care to have his own concern rebuffed, so he pretended not to feel any.

 

Back in camp, she declared that he needed rest, and as the healer abruptly had beds that weren't full of the cursed and changing, they put him there to tell a softened version of the tale to Zathrien's apprentice and let the camp absorb the news. He spent some time in quiet conference with Wynne, as well, and something of note must have been decided, because after Alim put in a few hours of resting, the two of them ducked back into the woods with Alistair and the dog in tow.

 

Apparently. Zevran had missed their departure, busy bantering with Leliana and resting a little himself. He had never been good at nursing. It made him nervous and touchy to be around a wounded friend, always feeling simultaneously that he was overwhelming them and not doing enough. But when he noticed Alim wasn't in bed anymore, he made a bit of a search and wound up asking Cammen's mother, who turned out to be one of the healers and at least seemed kindly disposed to him.

 

Once she'd told him the mages had ducked away, she smiled apologetically. “I'm sure they'll be back soon. The hunters are already returning to the woods.”

 

“I wasn't very concerned. Only curious.” He was a little annoyed, but it might be mage business. He'd learned not to try to get between Alim and Wynne. Feeling he might do something useful, he asked, “The Warden has been working hard to learn the old language. There was some word you used last night that he didn't know, I understand?”

 

“Oh, yes.” She repeated the word and it slid through Zevran's head like water. He'd just have to hope it was the right one so he could give Alim the translation. “I was teasing him a little. I certainly haven't used it for Lirin in years.” Her husband? Zevran was suddenly fairly sure he wouldn't be passing this on to Alim after all. “I don't know if there even is a word that would work in your language. It's what a young woman would call her man during courtship and bonding.”

 

“I see. He was just curious.”

 

“And honestly, I'm never sure when it's a matter of two men.” She looked a little flustered. “Sorry I wasn't more helpful, Zafren.” He looked at her blankly. “Do I have your name wrong, too? I can't get anything right today.”

 

“Zevran. It's Antivan.” A rather rare, old fashioned boy's name. He was the only one he'd ever met. He'd always ascribed it to someone at the whorehouse being whimsical.

 

“I see. It sounded like what you were saying.”

 

“Zafren is a Dalish name?” Filtered through his accent it did sound almost the same.

 

“It's a diminutive of Zathrien, actually.” She paused, looking distant and quiet as she thought of the dearly departed keeper. “Visit us in a few years and I suspect you'll meet several young ones, in his honor.”

 

“Ah. Well, thank you for your help.” He escaped more quickly than was strictly civil, more rattled than was reasonable. He didn't even resist when Morrigan found him and put him to making dinner.

 

Alim pounced on him the better part of an hour later, wrapping his arms around Zevran's neck from behind with an undignified giggle. Fortunately his injury kept him slowed enough that the impulse to elbow him off and knife him wasn't too strong. Play-ambushing a Crow wasn't a good idea. Rather than explain that, he just rolled his eyes while Alim cuddled up and the dog sniffed at him. “Ooh, Antivan cooking.”

 

“It is nothing of the kind. Not when the only available spices are wild garlic and parsley and the fish is this tepid freshwater stuff.” He smiled over his shoulder. “Someday I promise to cook for you properly. Pepper and chocolate.”

 

“At the same time?”

 

“I've had it. A little strange, but palatable. Taste.” Alim gave him an approving nod. “What did you do all afternoon while you were supposed to be recovering?”

 

“I'm fine. An apprentice of Wynne's who ran away successfully turned out to be living here. It was sweet.” He sounded approving. Given what he'd said of the tower, it made sense.

 

Zevran nodded, poking at the fire a little. “Was it common to run away unsuccessfully?”

 

“Fairly. They have your phylactery.” He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. “Which is blood magic, by the way. They don't have to call it that because they're templars, but they're using blood to do magic. What else would it be? They're harder on elves, too, I've realized. Human apprentices who run away don't have it easy, but they're more likely to be brought back in one piece.”

 

“How extremely unsurprising.” Zevran tested the texture of the roasting fish. Not quite. “Did you run away?”

 

“No, too boring. And until Jowan I didn't really understand...” Alim shifted uncomfortably and stared into the fire. “I was the first of the apprentices in my cohort to be harrowed. Nothing forced me to think things through.”

 

“Harrowed?” Alim had a habit of assuming mage jargon was intelligible to everyone else.

 

“When they throw apprentices headfirst into danger to see if they'll claw their way out. It's supposed to test your strength against demons, but it doesn't, not in any meaningful way. Fail and you die, and if they don't think you're up to it, tranquility.”

 

That wasn't actually very informative. Zevran tried again. “What do they do?”

 

“Toss you in the way of a demon—they must have some way of making sure the right sort of demons will be about, mind you—and you just hope you're lucky enough to make it out. Now imagine if they sent you in with an experienced mage to actually teach you how to avoid demons. They wouldn't have to kill or destroy half of us, but that would spoil the whole thing, wouldn't it?”

 

Zevran decided he really shouldn't get Alim going. “Did you have a nice chat with the escaped apprentice, anyway?”

 

“I liked him. With just me and Wynne... Well, there's Morrigan, too, when she'll talk to me.” Since Morrigan seemed to like Alim more than she did anyone else, that seemed melodramatic. “But I do miss being surrounded by other mages. If I could just have Jowan and Anders and Dalora and...”

 

“Have I heard about Anders?” And did a man's name spark a sudden jealousy, even knowing Alim's inability to be flirted with?

 

“You'd like Anders. He wanted a cat, too.” He looked wistful for a moment and then came back to earth, smiling over at Zevran. “What did you do all day?”

 

“Discovered my mother might have named be after all.” Alim blinked a few times and opted to stay silent. “Zevran isn't a common name in Antiva. I'd often wondered how I ended up with it. But apparently there is a Dalish name that sounds quite a bit like it. Let a dying woman tell it to a few Antivan whores with more than enough on their minds, and you can see how it might have slipped a bit.”

 

Alim was quiet for a moment than then asked simply, “And to you that means?”

 

“I like the idea that she gave me something other than her gloves.” Alas for his first victim. “It doesn't make me any more Dalish, though.”

 

Before Alim could answer, Alistair came charging up, and he wasn't the only one. These people might not be able to produce real food themselves, but they knew it when they tasted it. “You'd all be extremely easy to poison,” he observed, but wasn't sure anyone but the dog appreciated his wit. And Fen might have been trying to make off with fish, come to think.

 

He let himself into Alim's tent after dinner, and didn't have long to wait before the other elf joined him, sliding into his arms with a kiss and a sigh. Familiar, but not boring. Funny how that could work. On a whim, he went forward with his poetry plan, wanting to be better company than he had the night before.

 

Alim only laughed as much as was fair and even clapped at the end, but once the initial fun of teasing wore off, he sent Zevran a mock-serious look. “You're a ridiculous man.”

 

“Bah, poetry is an excellent compliment to a dalliance. You can consult any book you like.” He hoped.

 

“Oh, I buy that part. But you wrote that poem.” He leaned on Zevran's shoulder and looked up at him crookedly, smiling.

 

“I most certainly did not. I told you where I had it from.”

 

“You wrote that poem and I bet it was in the last ten minutes.”

 

Well, that he was offended by. It had taken at least twenty, and he'd mulled it over for some time before this. “Bah. The terrible taste of Antivan minstrels is lost on you.”

 

“Fine, you want to know how I know?”

 

He surrendered, a bit curious. Alim wasn't that good at sussing out secrets. “Alright, how did you guess?”

 

“Because, ma vhenan, Antivan poety...” He paused for effect. “Does not rhyme in the common tongue.”

 

“I should have thought of that.”

 

“If you'd been cleverer you could have claimed to have _translated_ it.” Alim nuzzled into his neck. “Thank you for my lurid poem.”

 

“Your terrible lurid poem.”

 

“It could have scanned better. I'll make you read some poetry next time we're in a library.”

 

“No, no scholarship right now. I'm too tired. Ravishing instead.” Zevran cupped his cheek and kissed him deeply.

 

“Dragon, dragon, how do you do?”

 

“I come from the king to murder you.”

 

“Well, you're in a better mood, anyway.”

 

“I am.” He had accepted things as they were. Without naming his feelings for Alim, he had to admit they were too much like what Rinna had drawn out of him. If he didn't accept the impossibility of permanence, of being precious in return, he'd destroy Alim as well. That untold numbers of Darkspawn had been unable to do it didn't matter to the kind of soul-deep conviction he had. Being loved by Zevran ruined beautiful things. So he wouldn't try to hold on, and he'd enjoy the moments as they came, and when he had to say goodbye, he'd manage somehow. Hope was the enemy, and he'd banished it. He was much more calm now. Perspective. “We have all your armies. That is something. And there is a very pretty mage here to listen to my bad poetry.”

 

Alim smiled and stretched out on his back, Zevran following him down to kiss him again. He thought of last night, not his black mood and miserable confession, but being held and protected while he slept. “Very pretty tonight,” he muttered, mussing Alim's hair fondly. “What comes now?”

 

“We go fetch Alistair's uncle and get rid of Loghain, and then there's the darkspawn.” As though it were that easy. “And I assume we'll meet ten or a dozen people who needs us to fix their lives while we're at it.” More like it. “It will be strange to be back in Denerim.”

 

“I thought you only had to go there to bother Leliana's old mentor and interrogate some sort of imposter Genitivi.” Alim hooked a knee over his hip and Zevran absently stroked his thigh.

 

“In and out, strictly undercover. I barely had time to think, and we didn't get close to the alienage.”

 

“So by back to Denerim you meant...”

 

“Home, by some definitions. I lived in the tower much longer than there, and how much can a city ever be home to an elf, but...” He twisted a lock of Zevran's hair through his fingers, the color contrast strikingly pretty, sun-kissed straw against fertile earth. “And my sister may be there.”

 

He was a sucker for having his hair played with, anyway. “Dethrone a king, defeat the darkspawn, dower Nelia Surana?”

 

“Hmm.” Alim frowned. “I wonder if she does call herself Surana... It was my father's name, not hers. Mamae would have liked it if she did, I suppose. ...He died on the road from Orlais, after they escaped their master,” Alim added. “That's most of what I know.”

 

“I'll help you look for her.” It was something he could do for Alim, perhaps better than anyone else. He might seem a bit unsavory, looking for a girl more than ten years his junior, but he wouldn't attract any great attention, and would be more comfortable than his gentle lover searching the sorts of places an elven lass with no protectors was likely to wind up. He'd be better at that than deposing a king by some means other than poison, anyway.

 

“Thank you, arasha.” He punctuated it with a kiss. At least elvish (spoken with Alim's overeducated lack of accent) was nice to listen to. He wasn't going to ask what any of it meant, of course. “I wish I had more to offer, taking you home. At least I think the Arl lives in one of those stupid giant mansions. We could very well wind up sleeping in beds!”

 

“One bed, I think.” He nipped Alim's ear and made him laugh. He would have to remember this. For... for the future. Lying tangled and teasing with a lover, in no hurry, the promise of sex hanging tantalizingly over them. “That does sound pleasant, though. One can be a bit more acrobatic with a mattress underneath.”

 

“I might almost miss those lying on a rock but not wanting to stop bruises.” Alim twisted his fingers more firmly in Zevran's hair. Not quite pulling yet, but looking pleased with himself. He could tip it over any time he wanted now. It was such fun being in his power. “Maybe the mornings will be easier now...”

 

“If you like, I promise to leave you just as sore and worn out as ever.” Zevran winked. “It will only take a bit more effort.”

 

With that, Alim dragged him down by the hair to kiss, and Zevran was lost for another night.

 


	10. Pearl of Great Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a house in Denerim  
> They call the Rising Sun  
> And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy  
> And Maker I know I'm one
> 
> P.S. Isabela's in this one.

Ah, Denerim. Zevran joined Leliana in declaring it unremarkable and decidedly backwater, but he secretly found the place fascinating. To his Antivan sensibilities, a capital with a port should be a defined and distinct thing, and that the architecture, the entirely different mix of strangers jostling, the smells, the very air were so decidedly foreign. He hadn't exactly taken it in on his last visit, waiting to be dispatched on his suicide mission as he'd been.

 

And the Arl's house and the soft beds provided were certainly as pleasant as he'd hoped. His first night with Alim on a mattress left him more tired than when he'd gotten into bed, and he didn't mind at all. He woke up alone, which distressed him far out of proportion, but he found a note explaining Alim had been summoned by their host with a bit of elvish verse at the end that he could make nothing of, but that no doubt sounded very pretty.

 

He also got to keep the dog for company. The animal was growing rather fond of him, for some reason. Though it seemed to get along with everyone but Morrigan.

 

And he didn't have to be alone long. Alim poked his head in before Zevran was even quite dressed. He was attending to his hair in the surprisingly good mirror afforded this little guest room. His lover stepped behind him to help. He wasn't very good at hair despite all Zevran's efforts to instruct, but it still felt lovely. “Hope you didn't mind I let you sleep. You looked like you needed it. Arl wants me to go out and see what trouble we can find brewing before the Landsmeet. I'm not quite sure he thought that through.”

 

Zevran pitched his voice up an octave and tried to force it into a semblance of an educated Fereldan's accent. “Yes, hello, Grey Warden here, would anybody like to tell me what schemes they may have brewing? If you could be so kind as to write them up in the form of a five-paragraph essay, I'd be terribly grateful.”

 

Fortunately, Alim laughed. “So I'm bringing Leliana and Alistair. Will you help me, too?”

 

“Certainly. Are you certain about Alistair? He has, if anything, less subtlety than you, and a Chantry child is perhaps not much more streetwise than one from the Circle Tower.” He tipped his head back a little for more of Alim's fingers in his hair, though there couldn't possibly be much more to do to smooth it out.

 

The younger man obliged. “Just hoping not to attract attention.”

 

“But you'll be of the party,” Zevran purred. “Foreign elf in a dress with a stick, remember? Though I'm sure someone could loan you something more ordinary to wear...” Disguising Alim sounded like a fun game. Hm.

 

“There might be some elven servants... But no, I don't think so. We're here in defiance of Loghain's orders, not skulking around them.” Was there something of the politician or the spy in there somewhere after all, under all the dizzying magic and childlike curiosity? Or was he just repeating what he'd been told? “So by that logic, I suppose I might as well take Sten and Morrigan.”

 

“Not Morrigan. She'll insult anyone you're trying to interrogate.”

 

“Fine.” Alim leaned down and nipped the tip of Zevran's ear. “But you'll come, ma'sa'lath?”

 

He continued to refuse to ask what that meant. “Of course. I wouldn't miss you bullying nobles into talking to you for the world.”

 

It did turn out to be fun to watch, but didn't seem like it was getting them anywhere. Zevran had to be satisfied with their disrupting the orderly atmosphere of the expensive tavern until they were very nearly thrown out. Alim decided they'd done their job and deserved to wander the market for lunch and to find repairs and resupply with the funds Arl Eamon had allowed them, which Zevran suspected was merely a ruse to spend some time exploring his old home away from the Blight or the accompanying intrigue.

 

He knew it to be true when he lost track of Alim outside a market stall and found him and the dog staring up at the gates of the alienage. He walked up beside the mage and set a hand softly on his shoulder, a gesture between elves away from their people more than one between lovers. Well, maybe both.

 

“It looks smaller than I remember.”

 

“It would, yes.”

 

“They won't open the gates. How bad does it have to be in there to just cut it off? There were riots, but that's all I can find out. And riot is the sort of thing that means whatever they want it to mean.”

 

“We'll find out. Why don't you focus on toppling the king now, and then you can distribute all his treasures to your old friends.”

 

Alim kissed his cheek. “Won't that be splendid?” He took a deep breath and rallied himself. “Look, I found a trap,” he announced in an aggressively perky tone as their companions caught up. He pulled a posted notice off the wall. “Anybody want to go and spring it with  me?  Don't believe the lies! Friends of the Grey Wardens assemble. The hidden pearl holds the key to resistance. The griffons will rise again.” He read the lines like a bad actor trying to project all the way through the tavern, or perhaps he was trying to sound heroic.

 

Alistair squinted, reading over his shoulder. “You're probably right about a trap, but what do you mean? It doesn't say where to go.”

 

“There's only one Pearl of note in Denerim, Alistair,” Leliana teased. “Though it's not very hidden.”

 

“They're only going to catch stupid people with this ruse. Have to make sure they don't get too clever.” He paused, then added, “And if they're being sincere, we should hit them a little bit just to make them stop.” 

 

“I'd like a griffon, I must say. But, er, the Pearl? You mean the...”

 

“Yes, Alistair, it's the bawdy house.” Alim tucked the paper into his pouch of simples. “We won't tell anyone at the chantry where you went. Well, unless we see them there.”

 

“And we won't let any of the ladies frighten you,” Leliana added.

 

Zevran watched them tease Alistair with only half his attention. He wasn't sure how he felt about going to a brothel with Alim. For his own part, he found whorehouses rather relaxing. He understood the rules, tended to get along well with the employees, and could thoroughly enjoy a drink in such company. Assuming it was the right sort, anyway. There were certainly whorehouses that were places of misery and veritable (or actual) slavery, but certainly Alim and Alistair wouldn't have heard of one such. In fact, Fereldan might not have much in that way. He was used to Antiva's Crow-dominated criminal circles. The Fereldans were a refreshingly straightforward people, even about their vice and lawlessness. 

 

Still. Even assuming it was a perfectly upright, cheerful institution with legal sanction and well-paid, content prostitutes, he wasn't sure he wanted Alim there. The idea alone made him twitchy. He managed to work out some of his nerves when they were beset by bandits on the way, but he was still oddly reluctant to follow his companions inside. At least Fen was allowed in. Fereldans and their dogs. Zevran could be a little easier about a very pretty young elf going unmolested with twice his weight in warhound at his side. 

 

He did stop and look a bit lost in the hallway, but not nearly as comically cowed as Alistair, and he rallied himself to banter cheerfully with Leliana. Finding the madam and delivering the password was quick work, and Zevran took the time to note that the place was clean and well lit and that both whores and customers were in good spirits, or close enough as made no matter. Some of the crowd looked rough, even at a very quick glance, but it was under control.

 

Though given the general ineffectiveness of the city authorities, that was the sort of peace enforced by social contract, money, and habit, he suspected. Well, they wouldn't be here long. He might steal back for a drink if he found himself with the time to spare and no one to worry about. From the smell of it, they even had a real kitchen, not just a pile of dusty, cheap liquor bottles. Nice place. 

 

Loghain's minion's minions were some trouble to dispatch, but they managed, and Alim considered the matter dealt with, only hoping they hadn't caught too many honest but unwise supporters of Grey Wardens. 

 

Zevran considered suggesting they stay for a drink in celebration, but not with this crowd. Best to get out the door again quickly. In his experience, even assassinating other assassins usually had reprisals eventually, and they didn't need to leave too clear a trail for whoever ended up after them for interfering. 

 

There was a bit of a tussle going on as they stepped into the taproom, though, and Zevran felt his hackles rise before he'd even consciously worked out what was amiss. A large, drunk man was making a pest of himself; that was simply a hazard around sex and intoxicants. There was something about it that made him check his boot dagger and slink forward, ignoring a curious noise from Alistair and a question from Leliana. He didn't hear Alim, but his attention might well be elsewhere.

 

The man was trying his best to loom ominously over the madame. “She's here, ain't she?”

 

She seemed unimpressed, but was leaning back a bit. “So are the waitresses, and the porter, and hell, the other customers. And it isn't as though the whores have to take you if they don't like. Why you think you're so damn special, shithead, I don't know, but if you're not gone in another moment I'll call the guard.”

 

“You... you all think you're too _good_ for... Bunch of whores! Her mother's a whore. Oughta get started earl--” Wherever his rambling was headed, it cut off neatly with Zevran's daggerpoint against his ribs.

 

“Start walking,” he said simply, voice flat and dark.

 

He stammered for a moment before he found his voice. “Knife-earred whore, sneakin' up on...”

 

“I am not a courtesan, but many of my friends are. And I will apologize to them should I cut off funds from a future customer by dumping your body in a canal, but not too extensively.” No local canals. Oops. But he seemed to have made his point, as the man backed off. And Alistair assisted by walking up with his scowly face on, having either deduced what was the matter or just decided that he liked Zevran enough to help. A crazy elf with a knife was one thing should it come to telling the guards about the injustice he'd faced. A large man with a still bloodstained sword rather another. He looked between them and bolted. He knocked hard into the doorframe on his way out, which was at least fun to watch.

 

“Thank you, sirs,” the woman said, a bit stiff but seeming to direct her anger... away from them, anyway. “Have a round on me. For that and... that other problem.” She nodded down the hall she'd sent them through a moment before and quickly turned to look busy in another part of the room.

 

“That was nice of her.” Alistair looked down at Zevran in some confusion. “What happened there?”

 

“Your instincts are improving,” Zevran said admiringly. “We stopped a ruffian from inflicting his attentions on the unwilling.”

 

“Oh. That was good of us.” He looked around to see if he could find the offended lady. 

 

Zevran sighed. “As a rule, prostitutes have relatively few places to stow their children while they work. A reputable establishment keeps them out of the way, but there are persistent idiots, from time to time.”

 

Alistair made a horrified face. “Should we go after him?”

 

“That's so sweet, you want to murder someone.” Zevran patted his shoulder. “Go have your free drink.” They'd drawn enough attention to themselves. Might as well enjoy the watered wine that was their reward. 

 

But all Zevran felt at the moment was tired. He looked around for Alim and didn't see him. Slightly concerned, he made a quick, casual circuit and spotted the dog's tiny tail near the back of the room. A bit further and he could make out Alim's small form crouched down, mostly hidden by his monstrous friend. He was in close conference with a girl of about eight, holding both her hands and smiling his brightest for her. “I don't suppose the straw doll made it?” he was asking as Zevran approached.

 

“Nope. Full of spiders and all dried out,” she reported seriously.

 

“Oh, spiders are like that. I'm just glad the horse made it.”

 

“And the boat?”

 

“The boat was after my time. But it sounds like a very good boat.”

 

The girl noticed Zevran and looked up at him wide-eyed, declining to answer. Alim followed her gaze and stood, smiling. “Oh, don't worry about Zevran. He's lovely. And he chased off your malefactor.” Alim kissed his cheek, a strange little gesture that was becoming more frequent. 

 

“What's a malefactor?”

 

“...The bad man.”

 

“Oh.” The child frowned for a moment, performed an exactingly correct curtsey, and ran into the kitchen again.

 

He had to laugh. “Zevran is lovely?”

 

“You are. I like your hair.” Alim shrugged. “She was frightened. I just wanted to cheer her up a bit.”

 

“And you succeeded.” Not many children would have been amenable to any stranger after an encounter like that. His theory continued to be that Alim was just short enough to disguise himself as one of them. “What were you talking about, though?” It had seemed especially inexplicable.

 

Before Alim could answer, the girl reappeared with a carved wooden horse in her hand, dinged and darkened with smoke. “You can have him back.”

 

“Oh, no, he's absolutely yours.” Alim gently pushed her hand back. “I'm just glad he has a friend. And a boat to ride in. That's why we left our toys in there. So new children could play with them.”

 

“Deanna says it's 'cus she got too old.”

 

“Deanna is younger than me, and I play all the time. Tell her Alim said she should play with you.”

 

The girl giggled, tucked the toy into her pocket, and ran off again. A few heartbeats went by in silence.

 

“That was... yours.”

 

“Third brick up from the floor, fourth from the left of the fireplace. You could hide all sorts of things in there.” Alim didn't look at him, just slid his fingers into Zevran's while he eyed the kitchen door appraisingly. “This place looks smaller, too.”

 

“You... you might have told me,” Zevran said quietly, trying not to let his confusion bubble over into irritation that Alim didn't really deserve.

 

“I couldn't think of how to. You didn't want to talk about it after you told me about your mother, and how would I broach the subject later? Oh, by the way, my mother was a prostitute too, but she lived through childbirth a few times, and it worked out alright for us.” 

 

“I would have accepted that,” Zevran said blithely, not sure he would have.

 

“Then I'm sorry I didn't bring it up.” Alim squeezed his hand and smiled at him sadly. “No one's recognized me yet, at least. I was somehow even shorter back then.”

 

“Did you steal my short joke?”

 

“I win.” He winked. “We should probably get away from the kitchen, though, before we bother someone.” 

 

Alistair was at the bar looking very uncomfortable, with Leliana ribbing him. Maybe they should stay a while after all. Zevran was halfway to joining them, still a bit confused and disturbed, when he spotted a wonderfully familiar face. Followed by an equally familiar, short lived clatter of quick blades and quicker insults. Forgetting he still had Alim's hand, he jerked his flimsy little mage a bit as he turned. “Oh, we are lucky. Isabela!”

 

There was nothing wrong with Isabela, of course. She was and always had been a splendid woman. But he was perhaps a little too excited to see her. It gave him something to think about other than rethinking all his assumptions about his lover and the gulf between them, and he introduced the two with especially florid brilliance, encouraging Alim's unguarded admiration of her skill and laughing as she conned him into her favorite game. 

 

From which he expected he'd have to rescue the mage in short order, but it was Isabela who came to join him at the bar looking a bit confused, not Alim. “Where did you find that one?”

 

“Where did I find you?” He looked about to see Alim chatting amiably with a dwarven girl who clearly wasn't employed as a waitress. A childhood friend, perhaps. “Did you strip him of all his coin already? Not that he generally carries a great deal.”

 

“Actually...”

 

“He didn't win?”

 

“Well, he caught me cheating, and then it wasn't fun anymore.” She accepted a cup from the nearest barmaid. “Clever chit. Dense as a brick, though.”

 

“Ah, you tried to flirt with him?”

 

“I've been known to dally with pretty little elf boys.” She poked the tip of his nose. “Daresay that one's even prettier than you, if you don't mind a bit extra nose. So if I didn't manage and you didn't manage, he must be absolutely hopeless.”

 

“Who says I didn't manage?” He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully, though it felt a little forced. It was a lot stranger to brag about a conquest when your conquest was standing a few yards away, and beautiful as the dawn. 

 

“Hm.” She looked between them with interest. “So can you bring him out to my ship later or have you already blown it?”

 

“Alas, your charms, while many, will not suffice. Women aren't to his tastes.”

 

“Pity.” She rested her chin in her hand and turned all her attention on him. “What _is_ your mood about, Zev? You're barely any fun at all today.”

 

He brushed her off. “Oh, defected from the most insidious and powerful assassins in Thedas, caught up in foreign politics and a war against monsters, you know how it is.”

 

“So sounds like Tuesday. Come back to my ship for a quick romp. That'll cheer you up.” 

 

That did sound nice. He'd been without a woman's touch since... Since Rinna. And the fact that it had taken a moment for her to come to mind stung. “I'd better not. Someone has to keep the Warden from finding an interesting book and losing a few hours.” Not that there was anything inherently wrong with that. He was cute when he was reading. But it did make it hard to get anything done. 

 

“Oh, no, that's done it. What happened to my dearly depraved Zevran?”

 

“You've found me in an odd moment, _belleza_. The world is ending and I have made more a mess of my life than usual. Another time, I promise.”

 

“Not sure if I'll take your word for it.” She winked. “It's too bad, but I think you're done for.” 

 

“Well, between the darkspawn and the Crows, that's very likely true, but you still shouldn't say it.”

 

“Not what I meant.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek, but that kiss, he understood. She was teasing him. Teasing was perhaps part of what Alim did, but not the whole of it. “It's really too bad, but it's only rare there's a cure, and you've got a dreadful case. ...He is pretty, though.”

 

She downed the rest of her wine and left him before he could rally his thoughts. He sat quietly until Leliana came to fetch him, and out on the streets, he found himself caught in his own thoughts just as much as when he had a drink to linger over in a comfortable whorehouse. 

 

What if his mother had lived to give him what protection and kindness a woman in such straits was able? Would he be able to laugh at a world full of horrors and betrayal and giant spiders? Befriend motley strangers and trust them implicitly? 

 

And more importantly, Alim had seen just the same ugliness as a child that he had, that he wasn't delicate and naïve so much as good and gracious despite it all. While that certainly prodded at whatever might be left of Zevran's self-worth, he had to wonder. If his Warden could live that life and still be mad, brilliant Alim, was he perhaps not so breakable? Would being loved by Zevran not destroy him?

 

It was a typically gray, murky day in an equally gray and murky city, but Alim was a marvelous sight in any light. An Antivan master painter could do wonders with that face, the warm richness of skin and smile, the eyes and hair so cold and bright. His brilliance made the drab landscape glow. Zevran skulked up behind Leliana and Alistair and caught Alim's hand, holding him back a half-step. “Come here,  _ mi amor _ . I have a question.”

 

Then, from the stone steps behind them, came a horribly familiar voice. “And so here is the might Grey Warden at long last. The Crows send their greetings, once again.”

 


	11. Only miss the sun when it starts to snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, smut, fake languages, basically everything you're here for.

Taliesin hadn't changed a bit. Zevran answered his taunt rather mechanically, thinking far more about the past than what was going on in this moment. This had been his friend and lover, and none of those feelings had been false. He could no longer subscribe to the Crow-reared theory that emotions were either a tool or a weakness. He'd seen what friends looked like in the outside world, and it wasn't really any different than his time with Tali and Rinna, but that it didn't have to end like that. He knew Alim wouldn't turn on him, of course, but he was also fairly confident that Alistair, Leliana, even Wynne who so decidedly wanted him out of her protege's life, would also stand with him if they needed to.

 

He knew better now, and he could see that Taliesin never would. The Crows taught (indeed, allowed) only one virtue to the children they collected, and that was loyalty to them.

 

And it was his fault Rinna had died. Zevran might blame himself almost as much, but he couldn't forget that. He tried to answer back, but let Alim do most of the talking. The rather... possessive talking. Zevran was a little startled at how angry the normally rather placid elf seemed. This was personal, apparently. He hadn't been so annoyed since Orzammar. It would have been worth watching if Zevran had been less heartsore.

 

He was reluctant to take arms against his old partner, but he fell into the fray beside his friends. Taliesin had brought plenty of help and was playing it like a good Crow, stacking the deck and preparing several sorts of assaults. Any ordinary target would have been done for, if only from the overkill. The Warden and his friends, though, seemed barely inconvenienced.

 

And Alim really was fighting mean. Zevran engaged himself mostly with mercenary grunts, unwilling to strike directly at Taliesin despite himself, but whenever he caught a glimpse of Alim and Fen, he was after Tali with ruthless determination, chasing off anyone who got between them with careless gouts of flame, bearing down with ice and lightening. Talisein was damned good, though, Zevran knew, and he was afraid he'd have to move to protect his lover. Fortunately, the warhound had him covered.

 

Zevran didn't acquit himself especially well, distressed and distracted. A few superficial slices, an arrow nick in the ear, and a shallow but worrisome stab in the ribs left him staggering as the dust cleared. Or maybe he just didn't want to look. From the sound of it, Fen was tearing into something and he'd rather not know what.

 

As he tried to focus his attention on the blood-spattered gound, the odd sensation of magical healing, warmth and light and a bit of a shiver, flowed through him. Alim wasn't as good at it as Wynne, but he had been practicing. Zevran felt the flow of blood slow and cease and was a bit less light-headed.

 

“So are we going to talk about that, or--”

 

“Shut up, Alistair.” Alim came to stand beside Zevran quietly, not even reaching for him. He didn't respond for a moment before he took the mage's hand and gave it a little squeeze. “Are you alright to walk back, ma'vhenan?”

 

“Fine.” He kept his eyes on the ground as Alim led him away, and answered a few questions without thinking too much about them. He ought to be free of Crow attention for a little while, until they worked out what had happened, and of course he would stay. He didn't consider anything else. He was just having trouble paying attention.

 

When they returned to the mansion, he slipped away to clean up while the others made reports and plans. Washing up turned into convincing a maid to direct him to the Arl's wine cellars. He made sure to chose swill that was likely meant to pacify retainers and young guards, figuring that wouldn't be missed and that he didn't need it to taste like anything. He just needed to be extremely drunk.

 

He'd rather lost his sense of time but made it through a bottle and a half (this Fereldan stuff was weak, he assured himself) when Alim came to find him. Zevran was curled up on the bed they'd been sharing, gazing out the window into the flat, cloudy nothingness of the darkening sky. He felt wobbly and floaty and perhaps the beginnings of nauseous, but, most unfairly, he hadn't chased out any memories at all.

 

Alim hesitated at the door. “Do you want me?”

 

Zevran didn't answer right away. Alim had killed Taliesin, or his dog had. Close enough. Part of him didn't even want to look at his lover. But... Alim had spared him from killing Tali. And had been so wildly angry in defense of him. And even without looking directly at the younger man, he knew exactly how lovely Alim was, how sweetly concerned that face would be.

 

“Zev? I... I can go...”

 

“Oh, Maker, I want you so much it hurts. Come.” He held out a hand. Alim took it and slid into bed beside him, nuzzling into his hair. He clearly meant to be gentle. No gentleness in Zevran right now. He turned and pushed Alim down, kissing him hard and sloppily. He didn't want to think. He wasn't fool enough to hope that sex would really help, but it would keep him busy for a little while. Alim seemed surprised but played along, twisting fingers in his hair and pressing up against him.

 

He could feel Taliesin's hands on him as immediately as Alim's. Tali was the only man before the Warden he'd been with and felt cared for or anything like safe. He'd been rough, which was fine, and something of an inconsiderate bully, which annoyed at times but wasn't a deal breaker. Zevran had never seen anything serious in his feelings for the man, but fondness, friendship, mutual lust was enough, and as satisfying as it had ever been before he stumbled into this falling in love habit.

 

And if he could never think too hard about Tali again, it would probably be too soon. He lost himself in Alim as best he could. Hungry, bruising kisses weren't enough, and he pressed his tongue deep into that lovely mouth. He braced his hands on Alim's shoulders to hold him still, a bit too drunk to be coordinated and desperate for more sensation, enough to drown out his head.

 

Alim was his usual flushed, pretty self, though he grunted in surprise when Zevran bit his lower lip on a whim, surprise that didn't quite sound pleased. Zevran would have stopped normally, but he wasn't at his most attentive. He kissed down roughly, leaving the little bite marks that Alim generally loved. And finally bit hard at his collarbone.

 

“Zev!”

 

He was drunk and thoughtless and wrapped up in himself, but he knew enough to get off immediately at the note in Alim's voice. He sat up and leaned against the wall, hating himself. “I hurt you.” Had he really for a moment thought he could have Alim and nothing awful would happen? He was deservedly hunted by assassins and he couldn't even make love without doing something wrong.

 

“A little.” Alim sat up beside him. “You didn't mean to. I... is this the best thing for you to be doing?”

 

“Probably not,” he admitted. “Can't think right now, though. Can't stand myself. You should go.”

 

“Oh, but you want me here.” Alim took his hand and stroked it softly. “And I want to be here. You can have me if it makes you feel better. Just... don't bite that hard.”

 

Have him. Common enough way to put it, but Zevran disliked the sound of it at the moment. It was something that should happen between them, not something he drunkenly inflicted on a lover who tolerated it. He was acting... like Taliesin. He caught Alim's hand and kissed it with the proper adoration. “I  _ am _ sorry.”

 

“It's alright. Ma'sa'lath.” Alim caught him in a gentler kiss. He was still a bit flushed, just barely visible in the darkening room. “I... I liked the way you held me down. Just not the part that hurt.”

 

“Did you?” That had potential. “I always have. A little pain, anyway. It so sharpens the pleasure.”

 

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

 

“Sometime. Not now.” He ran his fingers through Alim's hair. “If I haven't put you off entirely, I do want you tonight.”

 

“Always.” Alim kissed him softly and then reached for the half empty bottle at the bedside. “Not even a mug?”

 

“The bottle is right there. I'm a man of simple pleasures.”

 

“Did you really say that with a straight face?”

 

“I'm also very drunk. And I don't know if it's sweet enough for you.”

 

Alim took a swig right from the bottle and laughed. “You're right, it's awful. Not drinking for the taste right now, though.” He sipped more carefully the second time, anyway.

 

Zevran gave him an arch look. “And why are you drinking?”

 

“Keep up with my Zevran,” he said simply. Then, because he was incapable of brevity, he added, “I'm sorry about today.”

 

“I'm free of the Crows for now.” He tried to sound excited and failed.

 

“I know what it is to lose a friend, arasha, even one who has done enough to lose that honor.” He sighed heavily and drank again from the bottle. “But you don't want to talk now. Shall I get on my knees and put my mouth to better use?”

 

Zevran tried not to laugh. Alim was far more shy talking about sex than doing it, and he was clearly trying very hard to be playful and seductive. The thought counted. “I think not. Talented as you are, and don't think I don't appreciate it.” He pulled Alim into his lap. “I want you where I can touch you.” The mage practically purred. Zevran nibbled his ear mercilessly. “ _ Mi Vida, mi Tesoro, mi Amor. _ ”

 

“Ooh.” Alim shivered a little. “You need to speak more Antivan.”

 

Lucky for him Alim didn't speak a word. “It is the perfect language for seduction, is it not? You can tell any Orlesians that for me.”

 

“Alright, but say that again _in Antivan_.”

 

He rolled his eyes a little and repeated himself in his own tongue. Alim giggled and had more of the wine. Just to experiment, he recited a bit of Crow law, described the smell of a tannery in vivid detail, and counted to ten, and kept Alim's attention the whole time. He was going to have to abuse this little weakness in his warden.

 

When he ran out of nonsense to spout, Alim kissed him gently. “I wish I had something to offer in return. Elvish annoys you more than anything else, I think.” Zevran chose not to argue, though it was more complicated than that. “I can manage a bit of Orlesian, but I'm better at reading. And Tevene doesn't sound the least bit sultry.” 

 

“Listening to you is more than sultry enough,” he teased. “What did they have you doing all day in that tower? No wonder you never had any fun.”

 

“A working knowledge of Orlesian and Tevene is necessary for an informed study of magic. Though I got an early start with the latter. Mamae was Tevinter.” He smirked. “You brought it up, so you can't tell me I'm bad at flirting.”

 

“I'm drunk. It doesn't count.” He slid a hand lasciviously down Alim's thigh, which only got him about halfway to the hem of that accursed robe. “Besides, you've already bewitched me. And we need to get you something easier to take off.”

 

Alim simply stood up. Zevran made a small disappointed sound that cut off sharply as Alim unhooked and untied everything that needed to be maneuvered around agonizingly slowly, keeping teasing eye contact all the while. It was the strangest striptease Zevran had ever seen, and the sweetest. He finished the little Alim had left in the bottle while he watched. The robe came off all at once, something Alim was apparently quite capable of doing if he was standing up instead of crammed into a tiny tent not meant to hold two.

 

Stripped down to just jewelry, he dipped down to kiss Zevran, who stood to meet him halfway. He wobbled as he got up and was a little worried for a moment that the rush would make him ill, but he leaned on Alim and recovered his balance. More or less. Enough. Alim steadied him for another moment and then set about getting him free of his leathers, lingering and petting with each piece and buckle. Kindly not pointing out that Zevran had apparently planned to drink himself into a stupor without even getting his armor off.

 

“I'm going to leave the boots,” he announced instead.

 

“I love the way you think.” Zevran held him for a heady moment, just breathing in the smell of his hair. “Is that sandalwood?”

 

“Is it? The Arl's baths are fancy. I just took the one I liked best.”

 

“Excellent choice.” Suited him. It was a pity the stuff was generally a bit expensive, even for an indulgence like perfumed soap. Zevran took half a step back, steadying himself carefully, to drink in his lovely Alim with his eyes, smiling faintly and woozily. “Were did we leave that bottle yesterday...”

 

“You know that oil is supposed to be for soothing burns,” Alim said, and Zevran delighted in watching him bend down to pick up his little herbal concoction.

 

“I find it very soothing,” he teased. When Alim was on his feet again, Zevran caught him by the shoulders and hesitated a moment, blearily watching for reaction. When he got an anticipatory smile, he pushed the smaller elf against the wall, kissing fiercely. Alim's arms wrapped around him and he let out a deep, cooing sigh. It was delicious, how demonstrative he was, how unguarded about his responses.

 

“Weren't we excited about having a bed?” Alim asked breathlessly when Zevran let him have his mouth back for a moment.

 

“We exhausted most of its potential for novelty last night. We also have a room to ourselves.” Zevran winked and gently turned Alim to face the wall. “Yes?”

 

“ _Yes_.” He shuddered, pushing back a little against Zevran already as the Crow held him against the wall. “Oh, ma'haurasha, yes...” 

 

Zevran nipped (more carefully, now) at the back of his neck, almost not minding the inevitable mouthful of hair. “You sound as hungry as I am, Dulzura.”

 

Alim laughed and reached back for a handful of his hair, tugging playfully. “You can't be that surprised, ma'sal'shiral.” Zevran decided he liked the sound of elvish when Alim was as breathy and bright as this. He took the bottle from Alim's hand and nibbled on his shoulder. “Mmm. Vhan'an'ara...” Yes, a very pretty language under the right circumstances.

 

He switched to Antivan. Their lovemaking was rough and loud and neither of them understood a word the other spoke all the while, but it was everything he'd hoped, cathartic and joyful and incredible. And just a little adventurous. It shouldn't matter, but seeing Alim was developing real tastes of his own was invigorating.

 

He didn't even remember falling into bed, but he woke before dawn with Alim stilling clinging to him, beautifully disheveled. He wasn't used to sleeping through the night and they'd wound up asleep so early that even a bit of a hangover couldn't keep him down. While Alim slept peacefully beside him, he found himself rooting through his meager possessions until he found the pretty jeweled earring he'd been looking for.

 

He'd offer it only as a mark of esteem, of gratitude. Alim never had to know. He'd just be able to see it on the Warden, and that would have to be enough.

 


End file.
